


The Highwayman

by Murasaki99



Series: The Shadow of the Unicorn [2]
Category: Carrick - Fandom, Death Knight - Fandom, Margo Lane - Fandom, Paladin - Fandom, Sidhe - Fandom, The Argent Dawn, The Shadow (Pulp), The Shadow - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, elves - Fandom, unicorn (OC)
Genre: 1930s, Carrick the Unicorn, Elves, F/M, Gen, Inspired by The Highwayman - Alfred Noyes, Other, Sidhe, The Shadow finds trouble even on vacation, Tuatha de Dannan, fantasy with unicorn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23727115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murasaki99/pseuds/Murasaki99
Summary: The Shadow takes a vacation with Margo Lane, who needs some healing.  Well, at least he was intending to take a vacation.  But the Shadow is a "strange attractor" if ever there was one and mysteries just ride up unbidden out of the mist.This story continues with characters introduced in The Star in the Well - Part 1 although reading that tale is not a prerequisite for this one.Carrick belongs to me, all rights reserved, etc.The Shadow belongs to Conde Nast.
Relationships: The Highwayman/Bess, The Shadow/Margo Lane
Series: The Shadow of the Unicorn [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680934
Kudos: 3





	1. Ribbon of Moonlight

## Prologue

The year is 1936. The mysterious crime-fighter known as The Shadow has been defending the cause of Justice in his own way since 1931. Working from his base in New York City and aided by his many agents, he seeks out the masters of evil the police cannot stop and brings their crimes to an end. Accompanied by his friend and companion Margo Lane and masquerading as wealthy socialite Lamont Cranston, the Shadow moves unseen between the many venues of the city, alert for the traces of true evil.

## Part One – Ribbon of Moonlight

“You know, Lamont,” Margo Lane scrubbed at the foggy windscreen with her handkerchief, “if there truly IS such a thing as “England’s green and pleasant land,” I certainly haven’t seen much of it yet.” 

London, where they had disembarked, had been awash in rain and the weather beyond the city was challenging the wipers. It wasn’t totally due to the rain, but the combination of misty rain, exterior fog, and their warm breath inside the car’s cabin made it seem as if they were moving through the interior of a silvery grey pearl. She risked a quick glance at her companion, who was driving with unusual care. 

“You **can** see the road, can’t you?”

“Visual navigation is somewhat challenging, but yes.” Lamont corrected their travel as the wheels found a worn spot in the road and tried to lurch off course. The current “civilian” persona of The Shadow seemed quite relaxed, despite the ugly evening weather seeking to slow their progress. The 1935 Crossley Sports Saloon that Lamont kept garaged in London handled well and had an engine powerful enough to answer needs other than country touring.

“I’ve flown through worse,” he added, guiding them around a narrow bend overhung with autumnal trees. The sun was setting and evening was fast overtaking them. “At least we don’t have to navigate in three dimensions versus two.”

An unseen rut bounced their vehicle skyward and the automobile touched down with a jounce.

“You’re quite sure about that?” Margo gripped the hand rest to her left and the side of her seat to the right. “A few more of those and we’ll need wings.”

“Think of the positives – after weather like this the following day is usually spectacular.”

“Will we be in a place where there are sights worth seeing?”

She had assumed when Lamont had taken her off on this journey that they would be spending their time in London, in those places that men of the original Lamont Cranston’s social status were wont to gather. Instead, he had collected his car from the townhouse, packed the boot of the vehicle with their suitcases, and drove off with nary a backward glance at the lights of the city.

“I… believe so.” He edged the car closer to the brown grass of the verge to give a large lorry coming the other way a little more room. It sluiced a generous quantity of brown water over them in passing. “The one time I visited, it was very bucolic, and if I understand Professor Carrick at all, he isn’t the sort to make too many changes over time to his holdings.”

Margo blinked. “Bucolic? You mean like, cows and sheep? Cottages thatched with straw? People plowing with horses?”

“Yes.” Lamont nodded. “All of those.”

“Are you well?” Margo turned in her seat to regard her companion. “Since when do you take the time to seek out places with no problems requiring the Shadow’s attention?”

“Truthfully, it was almost an accident,” Lamont admitted, shifting down a gear as the Crossley began to climb a hill. “I’d been wanting to confirm the Professor’s location here in England so I could contact him if ever the need arose, and was gratified to discover he was living not too far from Oxford and teaching at the University. On a trip to England last year I overheard several students discussing Professor Carrick’s lecture on ancient Viking incursions. After that, discovering where he lived was trivial.”

“He’s one of your agents?”

“Ha-ha-HA-ha!” The Shadow’s laugh burst without warning from Lamont’s chest, making Margo jump as far to the side of her seat as possible.

“No. No, he is not.” Chuckling, Lamont’s face relaxed and his mouth turned up in a slight smile, eyes shining. “It was not for lack of trying on my part, but he refused my request[1].”

“Refused?” There was so much information hidden in that one word.

“Yes.”

“I want to meet this person.”

Margo turned her gaze once again to the road before them and worked to get her heartbeat to throttle back to normal. She usually didn’t react badly to the Shadow’s laugh, but circumstances were different now. Part of the reason for their trip to England had been a “change of scene,” ostensibly to help her heal from a very harrowing adventure that had left her mentally and emotionally drained, and mistrustful of The Shadow’s efforts to mend her mind[2]. It had taken her months to even tolerate Lamont’s proximity, and part of her remained on high alert despite her best efforts to relax. 

Lamont – the Shadow – must have sensed her distress because ever since her startled reaction to his laugh he had been maintaining as much space between them as possible given the confines of the car. 

“Oh, look! A fox!” she exclaimed, pointing ahead through the mist.

On the narrow ribbon of country road, a canid shape with a bushy tail trotted from the gloom into the far reach of their headlights. It leaped off the road a moment later, but was followed by a much larger form, which sprang onto the road from the woods lining its left edge. A very robust deer danced and skittered over the rain slick pavement, its antlers glinting as it plunged forward. 

“Be a good boy,” said Lamont softly, tapping the brakes.

The deer gained the middle of the roadway and turned to look at the oncoming auto. Its eyes gleamed in the light of the headlamps, and it froze in place.

Cranston said something rude in Hànyǔ and pumped the brakes, but when the car’s forward movement turned into a frictionless glide, he worked the steering wheel to control the inevitable skid. 

“Hold on!” The touring car’s forward momentum turned into a long sideways slide, and Margo could feel the back wheels crunching into the verge of the road. The car bounced and juddered as it continued its sliding course. The jouncing of the lights released the buck from its paralysis and it sprang away just in time to avoid a collision with the car. 

The car, however, seemed determined to follow the pair of animals into the rolling fields, and Cranston had all he could do to keep the vehicle on course. The car made a final fishtail and succeeded in sliding its rear wheels off the road and over the edge of a shallow ditch that served to drain the nearby land. The shriek of rubber subsided into quiet. 

“Are you all right?” Lamont asked, switching off the engine.

“Seem to be in one piece,” Margo replied, arranging herself in a more orderly fashion in her seat and releasing her stranglehold on the armrest[3].

She peered out her window. The stag had already vanished into the fog blanketing the meadow. 

“Hey, we didn’t end up with venison for dinner or roll over, so we’re fine.”

“Venison acquired by smashing it with a car would be an expensive meal, even by Cranston’s standards.” Lamont got out of the car and paced behind the vehicle, inspecting the machine for damage. “Nor would it be kosher, Shrevvie would object.” Moe Shrevenitz was The Shadow’s preferred driver while they were in New York City and the cabbie did his best to observe at least some of his familial religious traditions.

“We’d never hear the end of it, if he found out we’d eaten something so _trayf_ , that’s for sure.” Exiting the car, Margo found herself on the edge of the berm. Their car had managed to beach itself quite nicely in such a way that neither forward nor backward movement was possible without a team of people or a tow truck to assist. 

“How far are we from the professor’s home?” she asked.

Cranston looked up from his inspection of the wheels and out at the fog-veiled countryside. “Several miles, if we went straight across country; not impossible, but not a comfortable hike…” he let his voice trail off.

“For me, you mean? Really Lamont, I’m perfectly capable of walking, just let me get the right shoes out of my suitcase. These pumps are fine for London, but not for tramping, as the British would say.”

“You’ll get wet.” He made no move to unfasten the boot of the car. The steady drizzle had already made damp patches on the shoulders of his wool driving-coat. 

“I’m not made of sugar; I won’t melt.” Margo snorted, making an “open up” gesture at the back of the car. “My car coat is pretty waterproof.” She chose not to point out the fact that she was wearing a nice dress rather than gabardine trousers like Lamont.

“You could simply wait in the car and stay dry while I go and fetch the professor – he has a car capable of pulling ours onto the road.” He smiled at her. “I move rather quickly, as you know.”

“What, and wait here in the spooky fog alone?” Margo shook her head. “Absolutely not. Tonight is Hallowe’en, did you forget?”

Lamont raised an eyebrow. “You are worried about unreal phantoms?”

 _When the real ones can be far more frightening?_ Margo firmly squelched the unvoiced thought and glowered at her companion. “Look, I’d rather hike through the fog with you than sit in the car and wait alone with my imagination.” 

“I concede the point.” Fishing the key out of his coat pocket he reached to unlock the boot of the Crossley, then stopped in mid-motion as distant sounds reached his ears.

“Say,” Margo turned to look up the road into the swirling fog, “someone’s coming, I think.” 

The faint sounds were definitely heading their way along the road, resolving into the steady clip-clop of a horse at the trot. 

“Someone’s out riding in this murk?” she asked, incredulous.

“The English ride when they will,” said Lamont with a shrug, re-pocketing the key. “It could be the very end of a holiday foxhunt, with everyone returning home, in which case…”

“Maybe they can help us out of the ditch!” Margo finished his thought with a grin and walked a bit ahead of the car. 

_Clip-clop_ , _clip-clop_ , the brisk sounds drew nearer. Without the headlights of the car, the only light came from the half-moon, much filtered by misty rainclouds above and fog below. Any stars were invisible. Cranston moved to stand by her side and Margo edged a bit closer, glad of his company, her earlier nerves notwithstanding. 

At last the fog parted to reveal a fine horse, nearly as pale a grey as the mist itself. Sitting tall astride his steed, a man wearing a tricorne hat and sheltered under a heavy cloak came into view. He drew rein gently and the horse halted at once. It shook its head, causing the bit to chime a silvery melody. No other riders seemed to be following him, and now that the horse was no longer in motion the only sounds to be heard were the patter of the rain and the breeze in the bare trees on the other side of the road.

 _He must be heading for a costume party_ , thought Margo _, but what a party it must be!_

The man was fully dressed in the clothing of a much earlier era; in addition to his tricorne hat, he wore thigh-high boots and pale breeches. Under his cloak Margo could see a bit of his fine dark jacket and a lacy cravat filling the space between jacket and chin. She could also see the butts of a brace of flintlock pistols glinting and the hilt of a rapier hanging by his side. Simple silver spurs completed the ensemble, creating the very picture of a cavalier of bygone days. Gazing down over his horse’s shoulder from the saddle he looked at their marooned car with an expression of momentary confusion. 

“Your carriage?”

“A deer jumped in front of our car.” Margo used her hands to mime the motion of the buck. “Lamont kept us from hitting it, but we slid off the road and now we’re a bit stuck.”

“I understand.” His voice was very quiet but carried clearly in the damp air. “A moment, if you please.” 

Half-turning in the saddle, he rummaged about in a pack behind the cantle and retrieved a long coil of rope. Dismounting, he kept one end and passed a share of the rope to Cranston. Without further discussion he shaped a simple harness out of his section of rope, doubling it and fastening it carefully over the saddle and breastcollar on his horse. 

Working quickly, Cranston knelt and fastened the rope to a strong center point of the car’s main undercarriage, tying a quick-release knot for the last connection. The horse seemed quite calm, but he didn’t want to risk it panicking over being attached to the car. The younger man nodded at this and stepped to his horse’s head. 

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes, heave away,” Lamont replied, moving to stand near the back wheels to lend his shoulder to the effort. 

Margo stepped away several paces to give them room, and the Englishman took up his horse’s bridle-reins and asked him to step forward. The horse put his weight into the makeshift harness slowly, and then evidently satisfied that it would hold, pushed into it with a will. The Crossley creaked, shifted, and moved up onto the road smoothly. 

“That’s perfect!” called Lamont from the back of the vehicle. 

The horse had ceased to pull as soon as the car’s wheels were firmly back on the pavement. Lamont released the slipknot and knelt again to remove the rope from the car’s frame. Gathering up the rope, he stood and turned to offer it back to their benefactor. 

“Thank you. You’ve saved us a lot of trouble…” 

The young man and his horse were gone. The other end of the rope lay in loops on the road. Lamont coiled it in his hands and scanned the foggy surroundings for any sign of their helper. 

“Margo, did you see which way he went?”

“No. He sure vanished in a hurry. I looked away for a moment, and when I looked back he was gone. I bet he was late to the party.”

“I don’t hear his horse’s footfalls,” said Lamont. “He must have turned off the road and gone cross-country.” Opening the passenger door for Margo, he got her seated, then took his own place behind the wheel. 

“What party?” He shot Margo a puzzled look.

“Didn’t you see his get-up? He looked like one of the Three Musketeers! If he wasn’t going to some fancy dress Hallowe’en party, I’ll eat my hat.”

Cranston spared the top of Margo’s very hat-less head a glance. “Hmm.” He passed Margo the damp coil of rope. “Hold this. If he’s riding along the verge we can return it to him.”

“We owe him a hot drink at a local pub, at the least,” said Margo. 

Taking custody of the rope, she turned it in her hands as Lamont started the car and put it into motion. The vehicle seemed undamaged by its misadventure and purred along as if nothing had happened. As Margo looked for a good spot other than her lap in which to stow the damp coils, something hard clinked against her fingernails. Feeling after whatever it was she found a smallish object lodged in the last bit of the rope. Working it free, she turned it over in the wan light of the moon. 

“Lamont?”

“Yes?”

“Our friend left us a souvenir – it was stuck in the rope. Feels like a buckle or something from his saddle.” She held it up and out into Lamont’s field of view.

“Interesting. It might have a family crest on it. We can give it a deeper examination once we reach our destination.”

Margo tucked the buckle carefully into a pocket of her purse.

“Here we have a mystery, and no one even died!”

[1] See _The Star in the Well_ for the full story.

[2] See _The Death of Margo Lane_ , by Matt Wagner, published by Dynamite Comics, 2016.

[3] It’s the 1930s, cars have no seat belts.


	2. Before the Morning Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shadow does not believe in ghosts. Not real ones.  
> “You see, on these nights when many doors open, the aos sí ride out in the gloaming, seeking for those they may take away to their halls.” Carrick smiled at Cranston. “You, my friend, have traveled along those perilous borders in the past, whether you knew it or not. You would make a fine prize to serve the nobles of their court.”  
> Cranston snorted, his eyes lighting up with that inner combative fire. “I’d like to see them try.”  
> Carrick gave a soft sound of distress. “In this place and time, that was not well-said.”  
> “Elves.” Cranston, waved a hand in dismissal. “I don’t believe in elves. I outgrew fairytales many years ago. I’ve fought enough all-too human monsters to know the difference.”

“You weren’t kidding, it really _is_ a thatched cottage!” Margo pointed at the house.

After driving through the misty night for another ten minutes, Cranston had turned the car onto a lane that wended its way between fenced fields, past a barn, and finally had pulled up in front of a tidy home, which was indeed thatched with straw. Nearly invisible in the gloom, smoke curled gently from the main chimney. Two lamps glowed on either side of the door. Cranston set the brake and came around the car to open the door for Margo. As he did so, the door to the cottage was flung wide. 

“Here at last; bearing the storm under his wings!” A tall man stood silhouetted in the doorway. 

“Th-that’s him?” Margo’s voice rose as the man strode around the car to greet them. 

He was every bit as tall as Lamont, with eyes that shone in the gloom, but there the resemblance ended. This man sported a shaggy mane of hair – in the soft light of the lamps Margo could not tell if it was actually white or just very pale blond, but it was as pale as the skin of his face. He was dressed in a manner that put her in mind of their mysterious helper on the road, in riding boots and fawn-colored breeches, a long-sleeved shirt over which went a wool vest of muted plaid, and a cravat of dark silky fabric knotted at his throat.

He bowed to her and taking her hand in one of his own, he gestured to the house. 

“Welcome, young falcon, to the House of the Unicorn. I am called Carrick.” He tipped his head sideways at Cranston. “The wild eagle already knows he is welcome. Please come in out of the wet, both of you.”

“You were expecting us?” Cranston asked suspiciously, as he pulled their suitcases from the boot of the car.

“You didn’t let him know we were coming?” Margo shot him a glare. “Honestly! Sometimes…”

“Do not be aggrieved; you are both well-met, and his arrival was not as much a surprise as you might think.”

“Someone telephoned my presence in London?” Cranston narrowed his eyes, not sure he liked the thought of his movements being tracked so precisely.

“Not at all. I do not own such a device.”

Carrick carried Margo’s suitcase into the hallway of his cottage, and collecting their damp coats, hung them up on a coat rack by the door. 

“Then how did you know?” Cranston pursued.

“Ah, you with so many secrets and yet you wish a full explanation of mine? How many years do you have?” Carrick laughed as he led them into the main room of the cottage.

At the far end of the room a fire crackled gently in the fireplace. Before the fire, a table of dark wood was laid with plates, cups, napkins, and silverware for a meal. Tugging chairs out for both of them by the fire, he said, “Sit and warm yourselves while I fetch some supper. Would you like some mulled ale to take off the chill?”

“Yes, please,” said Margo. 

The fire was wonderfully warm and the house felt cozily familiar, as if it were a place she had known all her life. 

“You’ve set four places. Were you expecting more than two extra people tonight? I hope we’re not upsetting any plans you made for a quiet evening with friends.”

Carrick shook his head as he brought out several mugs of steaming hot liquid. “I felt my friend here, as soon as he set foot on the shores of Albion and knew I should prepare, in case he chose to visit.”

“You _felt_ my presence?” asked Cranston.

“Yes, it set off ripples of _intent_ – like a stone dropped into a lake, or a deep gong sounding. But the ripples were modified by the presence of another.” Carrick nodded at Margo. “And so I set an extra place for her, and yet one more, this being the eve of Samhain.” As he spoke he moved from the living room into what must have been the kitchen, and returned, bearing bread, cheeses, and butter, which he laid on the table. 

“Someone else is coming here?” asked Margo.

Carrick looked out one of the windows of the cottage into the night. “It is an old custom, to set a place for the stranger on this day, and to turn no one away from food and fire.” He smiled at them. “You never know who may knock.”

“You said it was the eve of sa-vin? What is that? I thought it was Hallowe’en tonight.” Margo sipped at her ale and coughed. 

It was steaming hot and spicy, which was not something she had expected. She belatedly remembered “mulled” meant “spiced”. It eased the chill of the evening from her bones.

Carrick set a bowl of fruit on the table and sat down with them. “It marks the turning of the year from growth to harvest. Over the ages, the original time of celebration was merged with the newer Christian traditions to become All-Hallows Eve, or Hallowe’en as it is most often called now.” Taking an apple, he lifted a knife and began to core it. “For this night and several more the walls between worlds grow thin, and those who wish walk abroad. Many go to visit those they loved in life.”

“Ghosts?” Margo sat up a bit straighter.

“And others.” Having made a neat stack of apple slices on a plate, he passed it to her and she took one and began to munch on it as she thought. 

“It’s a good night for them, for certain,” said Margo. “The young man with the horse who helped pull us from the ditch sure disappeared like one.”

“He was real enough,” said Cranston. “You have the rope he used to pull our car onto the road.”

“Yes, although I left it in the car. But I do have this.” Margo opened her purse and after a little digging produced the buckle she had found in the cordage, passing it to Cranston, who looked at it from either side. 

“Nickel silver or _baitong_ ; an alloy of copper, nickel, and tin of the sort saddle-makers use. Stronger than true silver and less likely to tarnish.” He passed the buckle to Carrick in exchange for a plate of apple slices. “Also much less costly.”

Carrick held the buckle gently. “Aye, and a light buckle like this is more decorative than one meant for bearing heavy loads. It looks like a buckle from a pannier or perhaps to fasten a breastcollar or martingale.”

“His grey horse was wearing a breastcollar, now that I think about it,” said Margo. “He wrapped the rope around the saddle and over the breastcollar – I think to protect the horse.”

“A sensible thing to do.” Carrick looked at the buckle again. “This is old as you count time. Not at all contemporary.” He placed it on the table. “I would estimate it was made in the early to mid-1700s.”

“That figures. He looked like he was dressed for a fancy costume party, with a sword and all,” said Margo, buttering some bread and taking a healthy bite. After a bit of chewing she added, “This is good!”

“Thank you. Our local bakers enjoy their trade. Can you describe your helper and what happened?” Carrick directed this question at no one in particular. 

Cranston proceeded to tell of their skid off the road and subsequent rescue by the young man on horseback. When he was done, Margo added her observations on his clothing and weapons.

“He had a set of two old pistols – like flintlocks, long and with wooden butts strengthened with metal. I could see them glinting in the moonlight. And a sword, long and thin as well – I told Lamont he was dressed like one of the Three Musketeers, only with no musket. I assumed he was heading for a Hallowe’en party.”

“Oh.” Carrick smiled widely. “You’ve met the Highwayman. I’m very pleased to hear he was of assistance to you.”

“Highwayman?!” Margo and Lamont exclaimed in unison.

“Yes. Quite a colorful character, in his day.”

“You mean like, “stand and deliver!” – That kind of highwayman?” Margo found herself smiling at the thought of the anachronistic horseman trying to hold up travelers on the modern roadway.

“The very sort, yes,” Carrick replied. “Although he has since given up the trade.”

“Has he killed anyone?” Lamont’s eyes had that intent shine that boded ill for evil-doers.

“I’m sure he has, long ago,” Carrick replied, shrugging his shoulders. Rising, he walked into the kitchen and returned with a large pot of tea, which he began to pour out for them. “You needn’t trouble yourself about him. All is well.”

Margo sat on a groan, because from Lamont’s expression she could tell at once that The Shadow did not think “all was well” with a thief prowling the highways, antique weaponry or not.

“Where does he live?” Lamont’s voice had shifted into the lower tones of his true self.

Carrick stirred his tea and took a sip, thinking about the question. After a full minute he answered.

“He does not _live_ anywhere.”

“He must, if he keeps a horse and rides the local highways,” said Lamont, frowning as he considered the limitations the Highwayman would face plying his trade. “You’re not trying to protect him, are you?”

“There is nothing to protect,” Carrick replied.

“Then where does he live?”

Carrick shook his head slowly. “Nowhere.”

“Carrick, you told me once you could not lie,” said Cranston.

“You remember correctly.”

“Then why are you avoiding the question now?”

Carrick’s brows knit.

“I confess I am perplexed. I am speaking the plain truth.”

“Then why can you not tell me where this ‘Highwayman’ lives? You have lived in the area for a very long time, you must be aware of the general places where he lurks, if nothing else.”

“But… there is no danger from him, I assure you.”

“No danger to _me_ , I’m sure,” Cranston said, sounding more like The Shadow with every moment. “But for those innocents on the road on dark nights, I’m not so certain. So I will ask one last time, where does he live?”

Margo held her breath. 

Carrick laughed suddenly, not in the least alarmed by the turn of their conversation. He held up a hand.

“Forgive me. While I have spoken the King’s English and its earlier forms for many long years, there are still limitations to my understanding of the language. My thoughts do not always run along the same track as most human beings, and so misunderstandings arise.” He stood up. “I have a book that will help to explain, if you will be patient for but a minute.”

“A book?” Cranston sounded dubious, but nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Yes, a book.” Carrick walked across the room and fetched what Margo thought was an ottoman, but found it unfolded into a large stepstool of the sort used by libraries. Positioning it along a wall of books, Carrick climbed up and scanned the topmost shelf. A sleepy cat that had been snoozing on that high vantage point yawned at him. 

“Here we are.” Plucking out a volume bound in dark leather, he descended the small ladder and returned to the table, paging through the book with sure movements. 

“This should help allay your concern.” Reversing the book, he held it out to Margo. “Read the entry on this page, if you will be so kind.”

Margo took the book, cleared her throat and read aloud the first several verses.

“ **The Highwayman** , by Alfred Noyes:

_The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees._

_The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas._

_The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_

_And the highwayman came riding—_

_Riding—riding—_

_The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door._ [1]

_He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,_

_A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin._

_They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh._

_And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,_

_His pistol butts a-twinkle,_

_His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky._

_Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard._

_He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred._

_He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there_

_But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,_

_Bess, the landlord’s daughter,_

_Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._

Margo stopped as she was drawn into the story. She silently scanned the remaining verses quickly. 

“Oh.” She turned the page, her fingers tracing the words. Her eyes widened, brightened with tears. 

_And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked_

_Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked._

_His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,_

_But he loved the landlord’s daughter,_

_The landlord’s red-lipped daughter._

_Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—_

_“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,_

_But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;_

_Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,_

_Then look for me by moonlight,_

_Watch for me by moonlight,_

_I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”_

_He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,_

_But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand_

_As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;_

_And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,_

_(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)_

_Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west._

_PART TWO_

_He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;_

_And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,_

_When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,_

_A red-coat troop came marching—_

_Marching—marching—_

_King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door._

_They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead._

_But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed._

_Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!_

_There was death at every window;_

_And hell at one dark window;_

_For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride._

_They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest._

_They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!_

_“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—_

_Look for me by moonlight;_

_Watch for me by moonlight;_

_I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!_

_She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!_

_She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!_

_They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years_

_Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,_

_Cold, on the stroke of midnight,_

_The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!_

_The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest._

_Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast._

_She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;_

_For the road lay bare in the moonlight;_

_Blank and bare in the moonlight;_

_And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain._

_Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;_

_Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?_

_Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,_

_The highwayman came riding—_

_Riding—riding—_

_The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still._

_Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!_

_Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light._

_Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,_

_Then her finger moved in the moonlight,_

_Her musket shattered the moonlight,_

_Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death._

_He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood_

_Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!_

_Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear_

_How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,_

_The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,_

_Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there._

_Back he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,_

_With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high._

_Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;_

_When they shot him down on the highway,_

_Down like a dog on the highway,_

_And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat._

_. . ._

_And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,_

_When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,_

_When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_

_A highwayman comes riding—_

_Riding—riding—_

_A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door._

_Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard._

_He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred._

_He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there_

_But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,_

_Bess, the landlord’s daughter,_

_Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._

There was a pause as Margo swallowed the lump in her throat. 

“He’s the same one?” she asked.

“The very same,” said Carrick. 

“I understand now.” Margo quickly wiped her eyes with her napkin. “Lamont, the Highwayman doesn’t _live_ anywhere, because he’s not _alive_.” She passed him the book.

Cranston took the book and did a quick scan of the verses, scowling at the pages. 

“You are telling me the man we met is a ghost?”

“A spirit who has not yet taken rest.” Carrick nodded. 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“To someone like yourself, yes, but it is the truth, nevertheless. Disbelief does not alter veracity.” He lifted a hand toward the book. “The last time our young friend fought and killed anyone was in the mid-1700s during the reign of King George the Second.”

“That explains his clothing and weapons,” said Margo. “He’s dressed as he used to be.”

“Next you are going to tell me that elves and fairies are real as well.” Cranston managed to look both annoyed and unsettled. 

Margo tried her best to smother a laugh, but was only partly successful. This visit with the professor was turning out nothing like she had thought, but much better than her wildest imaginings.

“Living here in this part of Albion? Of course they are.” Carrick poured them another round of tea and passed the cream pitcher.

“You see, on these nights when many doors open, the _aos sí_ ride out in the gloaming, seeking for those they may take away to their halls.” He smiled at Cranston. “You, my friend, have traveled along those perilous borders in the past, whether you knew it or not. You would make a fine prize to serve the nobles of their court.”

Cranston snorted, his eyes lighting up with that inner combative fire. “I’d like to see them try.”

Carrick gave a soft sound of distress. “In this place and time, that was not well-said.”

“Elves.” Cranston, waved a hand in dismissal. “I don’t believe in elves. I outgrew fairytales many years ago. I’ve fought enough all-too human monsters to know the difference.”

“Is he always so very obstinate?” Carrick asked of Margo. 

She shrugged and smiled briefly.

“Actually, he’s being pretty open-minded.” She took a sip of her hot drink. “For him.” She grinned. “You notice he didn’t run right out the door after your ghostly highwayman.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts, either. Some work will be required to find his lair and it can wait until tomorrow, since Carrick does not believe him to be a serious threat.” Cranston chewed a piece of bread for a time, washed it down with tea before continuing, “While my old teachers in the East believed in spirits, I did not. The only ‘ghosts’ I’ve encountered in my work have been the creations of charlatans or magicians using illusions and the power of suggestion to control the gullible. The man who assisted us out of the ditch tonight had physical form, as did his horse. He must live somewhere.”

Margo sighed deeply. “You’re not going to start that up again, are you?”

“I never finished.”

“Mercy,” said Carrick. “Belay for the evening, and let me show you to your rooms. You may not yet be tired, but Lady Margo needs her rest.” Standing and placing a hand over his heart he bowed. “You did not bring her all this way simply to keep her up till dawn and compound her weariness?”

Margo had rarely seen Cranston brought up quite as short as by that gentle reprimand.

“No, I did not. I brought her here to you for… something.” Now it was Cranston’s turn to wrestle with language. “Your company is soothing, difficulties with English aside.” He took a deep breath. “And I know you have some skill as a healer.” 

He paused for a long minute, scanning the verses in the book without comment. Marking the page for further study, he closed the volume gently. “Beyond that, I don’t know why. Intuition, perhaps.”

“And there is a gift indeed.” Carrick rose and took a candle from the table. “Follow me if you will and I will show you rooms where you can rest undisturbed by anyone, mortal man or otherwise.”

“I could sleep for a week,” Margo yawned. Now that the Shadow had pulled in his aura, she felt the burden of exhaustion most acutely.

“Then come upstairs and rest. The only company you may have might be from my cats. I have two at present.”

“Cats are fine.”

Drawn by the light of the candle, Margo followed her host up a set of stairs that had been built long before standard building codes, being somewhat narrow and each step a slightly different height than the next. 

Carrick let Margo into a room immediately after the stairs, and after seeing her safely inside with her suitcase, emerged to open a door on a room opposite for Cranston. Carrick’s guest nodded and smiled at him.

“I am in your debt for your care.” 

“There is no need for thanks. As you have your work, I have mine, and such aid as I can render is part of it.”

“Are you retiring now?” asked Cranston.

“No. If you are willing to watch the house for a few minutes, I am going out to walk the edges of my lands and see that the horses are comfortable before resting.”

“Very good.” Cranston descended the stairs soundlessly and Carrick followed. “I am going to sit up for a little longer and do some reading.” He lifted the volume of poetry.

“I hope you find the verses enlightening.” 

Leaving his guest sitting before the fire, Carrick plucked a caped greatcoat from its place by the door, wrapped it around his shoulders, and stepped out into the rainy night air. 

Despite listening sharply, Cranston could hear no footfalls. “I believe we need to trade a few more secrets, Professor,” he murmured, opening the book to the poem from which Margo had read aloud the first verses earlier that evening. “Restless spirits indeed.”

[1] Alfred Noyes, 1904, _Poems_. <https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43187/the-highwayman>

Or you can hear almost the entire poem beautifully sung by Loreena McKennit on her album Book of Secrets: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YGFo0xn4JeY>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My local editor insisted I put in the entire poem by Alfred Noyes of The Highwayman. I rather like the version sung by Loreena McKennitt, she shortens it up just a little and makes it flow smoothly.


	3. Through the Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peaceful night, a vivid dream, and a metaphysical conversation over breakfast.   
> And Margo Lane meets a unicorn.

He galloped as fast as his horse could manage on the rutted post road, moving steadily through a land part of his mind knew was lost to time. But time meant nothing when it came to the work at hand. Soldiers in red coats armed with muskets fired on him as he charged them through a haze of dust and blood. His scream of pain and fury had nothing to do with the physical injuries he was absorbing. He shot one, then another, flung aside his spent pistols, and sprang from his dying horse to skewer two more before the rest of the soldiers fired a fusillade of bullets that tore him to pieces and he crashed into darkness.

The Shadow jerked awake, breathing hard and momentarily disoriented by the sudden change-of-being. He was sitting in his chair by the fire in Carrick’s cottage, the physical memory of bullet impacts fading slowly. 

“Dreaming.” He ran a hand over his face, willing his heart to slow. Mental powers gained in the Far East were all well and good, but they had their drawbacks, a hypersensitivity to whatever was lurking in the ethereal miasma being one of them. The fire was down to a few low embers and the book of poetry lay closed in his lap. He rose, stretching carefully, and laid the book on the table. 

“If all poetry made for such vivid dreams, would people read more, or less?” he said softly. 

Someone had cleared away the supper dishes while he dozed by the hearth – Carrick his host, if the damp greatcoat hanging on its hook by the door was any indication. 

_Really Kent, sleeping at your post?_ he told himself.Kent Allard, veteran of the Great War, had been “dead” these many years, to enable The Shadow to do his work unencumbered by the past. _What would your comrades at the front say?_ He smiled. “ _Get to bed out of the mud, you idiot, and sleep someplace decent while you can,” that’s what they would say._ For a time he stood in the soft gloom and listened with his inner senses for any hint of trouble, but for once nothing rang any psychic alarms. 

“Very well boys, I’m off,” he said softly. Ascending the stairs, he found his room and after removing the outer layers of his clothing and armament, and shifting the inevitable cat out of the way, fell into bed and knew nothing more till morning.

\---

Margo awakened as the early light of the sun peeked into the window, painting the walls in the most amazing colors. As she blinked at the display, she noticed the windows were of very old glass pieced together in many little panes, forming natural prisms that separated the light into its component colors.

After some thought, Margo chose some “tramping” clothing from her suitcase, and her sensible hiking shoes. Pulling her hair back into a short ponytail, she left her room and came down the eccentric stairs into the kitchen. 

“Good morrow to you.” Carrick lifted a steaming kettle from the burner and poured the contents into a large teapot. “This will be ready soon. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you.” She sat down at the table and Carrick took a seat nearby to pass scones and butter. They ate and drank in companionable silence for a time.

Margo looked at the man seated on her left. His hair seen in the morning light was silvery white and his skin was as pale as if he were sprung from the ancient chalk of the Uffington Horse. His eyes were blue and bottomless, shining in their depths as if someone had dropped a star into each.

“Who are you?” Last night she had thought him a hale old man, but now she saw his face was unlined.

The blunt question from Margo did not seem to surprise her host and he answered at once.

“I am Carrick – in this time and place, and in this language, that name is mine. I love nature and living things and loathe evil to the depth of my being.” He looked at his hands where they lay on the table. “I heal when the need is there, and perform such tasks as belong to my kind.”

“Your kind?”

“Of course. I’m not a human, after all. A fact our dark childe tends to ignore.”

Margo was very glad she hadn’t anything in her mouth. “What?” _Lamont, did you bring us to the house of a crazy man? Nice, but crazy?_

“He didn’t tell you?” Carrick lifted his eyebrows.

“No. About all Lamont said was that you had refused to become an agent, which is something completely out of my experience.” She swallowed a quick sip of her tea and said. “You sure look like a human, if a bit pale. What are you supposed to be? Not a vampire like in those silly movies with Bela Lugosi?” She didn’t feel the least bit afraid of him, despite his strange assertion.

“Vampires? Those unfortunates dissolve in daylight.” He rose from his chair. “The further side of my home borders the lands of Avalon and may not be the best place for my demonstration. Come outside in the front yard and I will show you. It will save much explanation.” 

Carrick walked out of the kitchen, through the main room where they had taken their supper, and out the front door. 

Thoroughly curious, Margo followed him into the yard. It was cool, but the rising sun was already taking the bite from the air.

In the open space before the cottage, Carrick did a quick turnaround, looking beyond the path to his home. “No sense in startling the lad who delivers the milk.” 

Content that no one else was near, he half-knelt, placing both hands on the ground. Light haloed his body, soft at first, then growing steadily brighter. Soon it hid his form entirely and the man-shape shifted, grew, and solidified into something much larger. The light faded away. 

“There.” The voice coming from the new creature was considerably deeper and more resonant.

“Ohh.” The blood rushed into Margo’s heart, which beat with a surge of strength.

What stood before her was something out of legend, old heraldry, and pure fantasy. In form he was similar to a horse, yet very tall and lithe, with the shape of his stifle joints putting her in mind of a greyhound or cheetah. A long tail, tufted like a lion’s at its end, moved with a life of its own. His legs and chest sported long feathering and a shaggy goatee grew from his chin. His legs ended in cloven hooves. In his equine head, Carrick’s eyes glowed with blue inner fire. What she could not help but stare at most was the long spiral horn that sprouted from his broad forehead. It seemed to be made of ivory, slightly pearlescent in the daylight. 

“You – you’re a unicorn.” Her nerves tingled and she felt more awake than she had ever been.

“You see me truly, then.” Carrick pranced a bit in place, tossing his head, which caused his long mane to ripple like ocean waves. “Not everyone can see me as I am. Some only see a fair white horse, and more often than not the wicked see very little – a goat, an ox, or a wild ass like the onager or kiang.”

Stepping up to his shoulder, Margo laid a hand against his neck, feeling the warmth of his body and the way the muscles moved as Carrick flexed his neck. He didn’t smell like a horse either. This close, he exuded a subtle resinous scent that put Margo in mind of forests of fir and cedar. She inhaled deeply.

“Why didn’t he tell me about you?” She patted his neck again, then began to untangle the few elf-locks he’d worked into his mane.

“Our friend?’

“Yes, Lamont – The Shadow – Kent Allard – whatever we call him.” She looked at Carrick’s horned head thoughtfully. “He saw you like this, didn’t he?”

“I had supposed so, certainly he sat on my back for a brief span of minutes last year,” Carrick chuckled at the memory. “He was half-choking me at the time. I shifted into this shape so I could breathe, and he ended up on my withers once the transformation was complete.”

“What happened then?” Margo found she was smiling at the mental scene Carrick was painting.

“I galloped off across the fields of the real Cranston’s estate and bucked him off into a thorny hedge.” 

“Ouch. He didn’t find you later and continue the fight?” That possibility more than any other surprised her.

“We met again as I was settling in to take an overnight train to Chicago later that day. We managed to resolve our differences politely at the time and I gave him my blessing. He also did his best to train me to keep my true nature a secret from humanity at large.”

“He never said anything about you being a unicorn, or having two shapes.”

“It could be he saw, but refused to see,” Carrick looked at her thoughtfully. “Right now, your mind is open in a way his is not.”

“What? He’s very strong in his mind – he has to be,” said Margo.

“He was trained to use his skills and powers for what he understands to be a good cause,” Carrick replied. “Once he set his course, he has stayed true and held to it with all his strength for a long span of time, which is an admirable thing. He has lived in the world, experienced, suffered from, and seen the painful defects of humanity. He has been willing to look straight at things from which many people would have shrunk in horror.”

“But there is a disadvantage to that.” Margo’s voice was quiet.

“You comprehend rightly.” Carrick nodded his head, his spiral horn making a soft sound as it swept an arc through the air. “Years of looking at ugliness have taught him to narrow his vision – to protect his mind and heart, and I cannot blame him for that.” He breathed out a soft sigh. “To paraphrase my friend the North Wind[1], _why would I want to have a window looking into an ash-heap? I want to see nice things._ And here he is, with windows looking into the worst that humanity has to offer.” 

“Can you…?”

“Repair that?” Carrick caught the intent of her thought.

“Well, that’s not the word I want, really.” Margo touched her eyes with the fingers of her right hand and held them outward. “I had a terrible _adventure_ several months ago. A dreadful woman with powers like his broke my mind and turned me temporarily into a weapon against him. He got me to safety and tried to repair me – my mind. It didn’t work all that well. I’ve got my own will back, but I’m not the same.” 

“Oftentimes it is our wounds that shape us, rather than our perfections.” Carrick nudged the middle of her chest with his muzzle. “Thou hast a brave heart. Understand that passing through fire only makes steel stronger. You are healing well. Set your mind at ease on that score.”

Margo thought for some minutes. 

“Can what I see be shared? He’s been able to pull stuff out of my mind before.” She grimaced at a memory. “It’s not always pleasant, but I can try.”

“I’m sure the experience was a poor one, if you were unwilling.” Carrick considered her question, turning his head as a little breeze ruffled his mane. “Perhaps. If, and I say again, _only if,_ he were willing. I can do many things, but I cannot force another sentient being into a mold of my own making. I can heal, I can even restore the breath of life to a body from which it has recently fled, but I can do none of those things if the person is at some level unwilling.”

“You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink,” said Margo. “Or see a unicorn.”

“Exactly.”

Standing on his hind legs, Carrick reversed the transformation and resumed his human shape. 

“I dare not stay overlong in that form and perhaps startle those who may pass by. It is much safer to run about at night when people are snug in their beds.” He gestured at the house. “Come inside out of the chill. The tea should be done.”

As they entered the cottage, Carrick listened for a moment. “He still rests.”

“He keeps terrible hours,” Margo said, as she remembered certain stretches of intense crime-fighting where none of the Shadow’s agents or the Shadow himself saw the light of day for weeks. “If he wasn’t who he is, I’d worry about him turning into a bat, or a mushroom.”

“We’ll let him sleep till he wakes.” Carrick peered into his icebox. “In the meantime, I will collect the morning’s eggs and prepare some breakfast.”

\---

Ten o’clock, if the fall sunlight outside was any indication. The washstand in his room made him smile. The professor had at least installed a working _water closet,_ as the British termed them, on the first floor of his cottage, but other amenities were definitely from the last century. Once tidied up and dressed, he came downstairs to find his “friend and companion” of some years in the kitchen. 

“Here you are,” said Margo, sounding quite chipper. “You were right. It’s going to be a lovely fall day, now that the rain has blown through.” She poured him a cup of tea from the pot on the table.

“Carrick?”

“Gone out to get some eggs for our breakfast.”

As if saying the phrase had summoned him, Carrick soon appeared in the doorway, a basket full of multicolored eggs over one arm.

“Good morrow to you! I trust you slept well?”

“I did, once I got myself into bed. I had a very vivid dream after reading that poem about the Highwayman as I sat by the fire – not something I’d care to repeat.”

“A vision of the future?”

“More like a replay of the past.” The Shadow, his alter-ego quite forgotten, watched as Carrick prepared a meal of eggs, kippers, beans, and toast. A plate of sectioned oranges sat on the table alongside their tea and a plate of scones. 

“Did your vision bring any clarity to you?”

The Shadow shook his head. “No, my abilities can be annoyingly non-specific sometimes.” He snorted a brief laugh, then took a scone to go with his tea. “Typically the more-vague the vision, the further I am from my old masters who taught me.”

“At a certain point, the students are left to manage their training alone.” Carrick deftly flipped an egg in the pan. “Having set you on the path, I am sure your masters felt you would be more than able to continue the journey.” Sliding a pair of eggs onto a plate, and adding the rest of the various items, he passed the food to Margo. “They would, I am sure, be pleased to have you join them someday to teach and pass on what you have learned.”

“Me?” The Shadow frowned into his tea cup. “What sort of teacher would I be? I can’t see that happening.”

“Not now, but in the future.”

“The future stretches away beyond my sight. Any chance of such a thing coming to pass is far, far distant in time.”

“Time is relative.” Carrick flipped another set of eggs.

Caught in the middle of trying to bring his Cranston persona to the fore, he laughed.

“You’ve been talking to Einstein.” 

“I had the honor of meeting the good Professor last year at Caltech in the United States. He gave a wonderful lecture. Such a unique point of view he has on the nature of time and space.” Carrick brought Cranston his plate and sat down at the table to join them.

“You’d be a fine teacher,” said Margo, speaking at last after having finished much of her breakfast. Her voice sounded stronger.

“I’d traumatize my students,” Cranston’s smile was pained. “ _Have_ traumatized my students.”

“Don’t.” Margo waved a hand at that statement. “You manage to keep a group of people working for you, all of them so …unique, yet you taught them to work as a team, different as we were. You have taught, and you’ve been teaching all along.”

“Some university.” The response was without sharpness. For a time, they ate in silence broken only by the songs of birds outside and the distant chatter of chickens.

“All of life is training, of one sort or another.” Carrick lifted his tea cup, drank, and collected a scone and some orange slices. “Some students manage to sleep through class, and some remain awake and amass a vast treasury of knowledge.”

“Treasure?” Margo asked.

“Yes, indeed. Knowledge and wisdom; two of those treasures that cannot be stolen by mortal thieves, and only gain value with time.”

The conversation roused Cranston from his contemplation of his tea, but he said nothing.

“Do you teach? Beyond the university near here, I mean,” asked Margo. 

“I teach any who wish to learn, and I serve.”

“Serve who?” asked Cranston, focusing on the professor. 

“Did I not mention it the last time we spoke about our work?” Carrick gazed up at the ceiling for a moment, remembering. “Hmm, perhaps I did not.”

“I thought you would serve no master, which is why you refused my… offer.”

“I have only one master – the All which created the universe in which we dwell and whose song even now keeps us alive.” He sighed softly. “The language we speak, it is not well-made for this sort of discussion. But already having a master, how could I have another?”

“You’re talking about God,” said Cranston impatiently. “People say they believe in God and then join the Army and kill, give their oath to a cause, or turn all their efforts to acquiring money or power; it happens all the time. It doesn’t stop them from serving more than one master, if you want to call it that.” 

He stopped at last because Carrick was listening to him attentively and it occurred to him that there was an error in the way he had built his case, but could not put his finger on what exactly the wrongness was. That thought reminded him of his old teachers and their challenging Socratic methods piped through a Buddhist and Taoist filter. He frowned in concentration. “I’m having some trouble with English myself.”

“You are mostly-correct, my friend,” Carrick answered his unspoken musing. “You speak of people and what they truly believe – or not – and how they choose to order their lives, given their beliefs or lack thereof. That is fine for them; the universe has nothing but time for everyone to progress. There are, however, people who do believe and live their beliefs in truth.” 

Carrick poured himself a little more tea. “Your teachers were such, among many. And then there are a few like me, who are not human beings at all, and so our understanding is different. As regards the existence of my master, I don’t believe.”

“What? Then—”

“I _know_. Belief is not required.” The professor shrugged his shoulders.

“Ugh. I should know better than to have a conversation on metaphysics so early in the morning!” Cranston set his teacup down with a firm _clink!_ into the saucer.

“You started it.” Margo rose and began clearing away the dishes. “If you’re going to continue, should I make some coffee?” she asked, eyeing the percolator sitting on a shelf above the Aga cooker.

“No thank you,” Cranston replied, rising from his seat. “I’m going to have a look around the area; do a little sightseeing, find the pubs, listen to the lore. You can stay here. I shouldn’t be gone too long.”

“Be kind to the local folk,” said Carrick. “They are in the main a decent group of people.”

“Don’t worry about a thing.” The Shadow’s laugh followed him out of the cottage.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, he doesn’t manage vacations very well,” said Margo. 

[1] _At the Back of the North Wind_ , by George MacDonald. <https://www.gutenberg.org/files/225/225-h/225-h.htm#link2HCH0005>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do need to add see The Death of Margo Lane, by Matt Wagner, published by Dynamite Comics, 2016, for the full details of what happened to Margo and why she racked up an impressive stack of trauma. Suffice it to say if an evil person breaks your mind, having the Shadow trying to fix it may make the cure worse than the disease.


	4. On a Cold Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shadow doesn't believe in ghosts. But he's on the trail of one. What else should he do while on vacation? Rest? Don't be silly.

_Carrick had been correct_ , the Shadow thought, as he sat in a smoky pub in the countryside beyond the town of Oxford, an hour’s drive away from Carrick’s home. He had spent the day prowling the city of scholars, wandering through their markets, shops, and pubs, senses open for any hint of his quarry. This particular establishment had felt promising _. The people here, if they are up to anything nefarious, it is the common failings of humanity and not the plotting of evil geniuses_. _However, they are willing to talk with little to no prompting beyond a round of ale_. He turned his attention back to the men sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, sipping their pints of stout and speaking of the object of the Shadow’s interest.

“Yes, there’s folks ‘round here who’ve seen him, the old Highwayman.”

“But no tellin’ where or when he’ll show up. Been awhile now.”

“What does he do?” While his English accent was impeccable, he had to spend a minor effort to keep their minds on storytelling and away from Cranston’s upper-class appearance. 

“Couple of years ago he pulled little Milly Farnsworth from the river before she could drown. He took her on his big horse all the way to her home, knocked on the door, and handed her in.” The college student pulled up this memory with his eyes half-closed as he poked at his pasty. “The Farnsworth’s maid was my aunt. She said Milly was wet from the river, but fine.”

“Your aunt saw him clearly then?” Cranston asked quietly.

“I suppose so, but when he started to fade away, she fainted. About all she remembers is he had an old-fashioned hat and a very nice horse.” His voice was thoughtful. “She always did have an eye for the ponies.”

“’Course, no one would report it,” the barkeeper added, as he mopped up some spills. 

“How could they?” A burly man with a grey beard and a box of tools at his feet shrugged. “The bobbies would think they’d gone ‘round the twist.”

“People used to, according to my father and grandfather, who ran this place before me. But you know how it is. The coppers don’t want to hear things like, ‘and then he vanished clean away,’ pretty soon, the Sergeant tells ‘em if anyone starts talking about the man in the tricorne hat on the grey horse, they’re just to nod and smile and wait for them to leave.”

There was a general murmuring of agreement.

“He’s not robbing anyone?”

“Ha! No! Wot’s the use o’money when yer dead?” The tradesman chuckled. 

“He’s only been seen helping people,” added the student. 

“Why do good deeds, instead?” asked Cranston.

“Those pasties look right fine, how ‘bout one fer me and another pint?” asked the tradesman.

“Right away,” replied the barkeeper. 

He moved into the kitchen and soon returned with the food and a fresh pint. Setting those down in front of the tradesman, he looked straight at Cranston.

“Maybe his lady asks him?” 

“His lady?” Cranston sat up very straight.

“Yes, the one who waits at the Brown Badger Inn, on the other side of River Evenlode.” He pointed toward the west. “It’s still there, and still in service, although their food isn’t _quite_ as good as mine.” He smiled. “It’s been through many hands and had its name changed a few times. Legend says she died there for him and waits for him still.”

“That’s plain silly; what gal’d wait on a lad for so long?” The tradesman shook his head in disapproval.

“Ah, not a romantic bone in your body!” The barkeeper gave him a mock-glare. “Even nowadays people say they’ve seen her waiting at her window when the moon is full.”

“Perhaps time is different when you’re a ghost?” suggested the student. “Only an hour, but it sure seems like an eternity whilst I’m in one of old Boofer’s lectures.”

“Time is relative, but all the same, I must be going. Thank you for the company,” said Cranston. Rising, he paid for their drinks and food and left the warm interior of the pub for the chill of the fall afternoon.

The sun was beginning to descend toward the horizon and Cranston debated heading to the Brown Badger. It had been an easy matter to pluck the location from Mike’s unguarded mind, but it was in an opposite direction from Carrick’s cottage and he wanted to return before either his host or Margo started to worry about what he was up to. He smiled to himself. _Any further explorations can wait till later this night when no one will be the wiser. If there are living people playing at being ghosts, I’ll know soon enough_.

\---

As he drove the Crossley up to the cottage, Cranston saw Carrick and Margo standing a little way out in the lane, talking to someone who was holding the reins of a big black horse arrayed in dark armor and barding. The person appeared vaguely female under armor matching that of the horse. Even from the very end of the lane, her presence set off all his internal alarms. He wasn’t sure what Carrick was seeing, but to the Shadow’s eyes the person’s aura glowed with nacreous blue fire, and everything about her screamed a _wrongness_ so severe it made his temples hurt from the pressure. 

Neither Carrick nor Margo seemed overly disturbed, although he noticed they were not standing very near their visitor. Sternly controlling his instinct to simply bail out of the car with guns blazing, he parked the Crossley, got out, and closed the distance between them as quickly as he could without looking as if he were immediately starting an assault.

“Hallo, Lamont. We’ve got company,” said Margo. She sounded good, but gave him a little _don’t get too close_ warning with both a hand and her mind. 

_Can you feel it?_ He said to her through that brief mental link, very gratified that she felt well enough to hazard such a contact.

_Oh yes. Carrick knows her_ , Margo added.

_That figures_.

_I think it will be all right_. Speaking aloud, Margo said, “Knight Indre, this is my comrade, Lamont Cranston.”

The woman was small, not much taller than a youngster of 13 or so, and very slender, like a child in that coltish phase of growth. The layer of armor did little to add to her bulk. The woman turned away from Carrick to look at him through the limited field of view offered by her full helmet, which was decorated with a set of short dark horns like those of a Spanish fighting bull.

“A warrior-mage. Well-met.” Her voice was as wrong as the rest of her – as if she had bathed her vocal cords in acid. She struck her chest with a fist, the clash of armor echoing the salute.

“The unicorn tells me your shield-bearer has need of proper array for questing. He sent a call to us not long ago. It is unwise to quest without arms. I will send what I can gather as soon as possible.”

“Not… armor from your citadel, I hope?” Carrick said mildly. 

“No. But enough of my human shield-mates were paladins like me and such things as their armor are not for us anymore. It will be good to see it have some use again.”

“You’re not human yourself?” asked Cranston. 

The joining-points of her armor at the shoulders were covered with chased metal bosses wrought in the shape of skulls, with tiny wells of fiery blue light in their eye sockets. Under her helm, her face was hidden in shadow. 

“My people were _Quel'dorei_ ; elves of an ancient world far from this time and place. We suffered a _disaster_.” 

Lifting her hands, she took firm hold of her helm and pulled it upward, revealing a narrow feminine face that had once been beautiful, but had suffered the ravages of some unknown torture or illness. Her ears were long and pointed and her eyes were also filled with that nacreous blue fire Cranston had first seen only as a psychic aura. 

“I bear but little resemblance to my kin now.” Her blue hair was pulled back into a short ponytail that served to cushion her skull from the metal helm. She grinned, revealing a set of wolfish canine teeth. “This world does not need the sorrows I bring. My visit here is brief.” 

Jamming the helmet back on her head, she turned away and sprang up onto her steed. “I’ll have the living send what is needed as soon as possible; it is unwise to leave the portal open for long.”

“Go in safety,” said Carrick, raising a hand in farewell.

The dark knight lifted her hand in return. “ _Shorel’aran_.” 

Turning her horse away, the animal stepped into a gallop. They sped along the fence line of the pasture and vanished into the forest.

Now that the dark warrior was gone, The Shadow became aware he’d been holding his breath. He breathed in deeply and heaved a great sigh of relief.

“Why?” Was the only question he could think to ask as he ran through some exercises to calm his jangled nerves. The effort required to hold back and not **do** anything had been considerable.

“You are called The Shadow, in the main because you work in the darkness and obscure your path from the sight of those who practice evil.” Carrick looked along the edge of his pasture after the woman. “That person drowned in true shadow was once a Paladin of the Light, a wielder of holy power and a bane against the forces of darkness that plague her world.”

“That is no paladin. She reeks of _wrong_ , she is steeped in it,” said the Shadow. 

“What happened?” asked Margo.

“Indre fell in battle against a necromancer the likes of which her world had never seen. Artifacts fueled by the power of a mad titan gave him the ability to raise to his service anything that had once lived: Long-dead dragons, giants, warriors of all types and species, mages, wizards, and…”

“Paladins,” the Shadow finished for him.

“Aye, the king of the undead coveted _them_ most of all. Fallen heroes like Indre raised into undeath became death knights[1]. Wiped clean of their past by death, they became the foremost of his warriors, prized for their strength, battle skills, and intelligence. Capable of leading his vast armies of shambling thralls and acting as his hands in the field.” Carrick smiled grimly. “In his arrogance, however, the king of the damned did not credit his slaves with perhaps having the will to desire their freedom.”

“So she finally won her freedom?” Margo shivered. “It didn’t seem to help her much.”

“She and her fellow death knights rebelled, and with the help of their living comrades overthrew the king after a long and bitter struggle. They gained their freedom, but as you can see, victory could not restore what they had lost.”

“I would rather be dead,” said the Shadow, his voice flat. “To walk around like that, bleeding horror with no relief, makes a mockery of existence.”

“But… they _are_ dead, that is the problem. Do you think they did not try to find some answer for their condition?”

“Can’t they die, then?” The Shadow shuddered internally at the thought of such a hideous immortality.

“Certainly they can be damaged to the point where we would call them dead. But someone with the knowledge could always summon them into existence again. For them, the grave is no safe haven,” said Carrick.

“I hope their “king” suffered a most terrible death, but even that would not be enough to pay for his crimes,” said the Shadow, absently smoothing the wrinkles his elbows had pressed into his coat over the holstered pistols carried underneath.

Carrick nodded. “He went into darkness after his defeat – whether that was fair punishment or not, I cannot say, but he troubles their world no longer. His death knights and all the rest did not fall into dust at his ending, so they busy themselves as best they can defending their world from those who would carve a similar path.”

“We are… comrades of a sort, then,” Cranston said. “Perverse as it seems.”

“I suppose so. That sort of thing can’t happen here, can it?” Margo’s tone reflected her alarm at the prospect.

“This mortal world does not possess the wellsprings of power required for such necromancy.” Carrick held out his hands. “On worlds like theirs, it is a different story.” 

“Here we need only worry about the usual terrors made by human beings,” Cranston’s voice was low.

“That’s more than enough.” Margo replied.

[1] While Dungeons and Dragons was the first RPG to create a class of character called death knights, World of Warcraft gave them a full realization and it is their history from _Wrath of the Lich King_ that Carrick is speaking of here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a brief guest appearance of Indre, my OC from World of Warcraft, a blood elf death knight. She's a decent sort for someone who has spent a lot of time as an undead creature of nightmare.


	5. After a Prize To-Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shadow doesn't believe in ghosts. Or elves. He said so out loud on All Hallows Eve in a cottage which sits astride the border with Faerie. But that's irrelevant when there is a "ghost" to be found.

Cranston opened his eyes. The angle of the moonlight indicated the night was wearing on toward the wee hours of morning. Carrick’s cottage was still. With both Margo and his host in bed, the only perceptible sounds were coming from a small family of mice in the wall and the gently snoring old cat at the foot of his bed. Quietly he rose and dressed, selecting the Shadow’s dark clothing – an inner coat, over which went his brace of automatic pistols, followed by a crimson scarf and his outer cloak. Settling his hat into place, he left his room and paused in the hallway to listen again, pushing his senses outward. 

Margo was sleeping, and nothing troubled her dreaming mind. In a room farther up the hall, Carrick likewise slept and dreamed of galloping wild and joyful over an infinite field of green. The Shadow shielded his mind, not wanting to be drawn into Carrick’s. He wasn’t at all sure at what point the man would become aware of him, and stealth was the order of the evening. Leaving them to their rest, he moved soundlessly down the stairs and out of the cottage. The Crossley, parked at the end of the lane near the barn, started with a low purr that did not wake anyone. He drove gently until he gained the main road. Turning toward the other side of Oxfordshire, he opened up the engine and navigated at speed toward his destination.

The Brown Badger, a multi-level old coaching inn, was set a little distance back from the road. Stands of trees screened the inn from the bustle of the road. It had a semicircular drive that in the past would have allowed a coach and four to draw up to the entrance and discharge passengers, then be driven through an arched entrance into the interior inn-yard, where the tired horses could be changed for a fresh team from the stables. 

Parking his car in a far space behind the inn, the Shadow lifted his gaze to the upper floors of the inn. The rooms had tall windows that opened like French doors so guests could catch a summer breeze. On this chilly night, the windows were all tightly closed and only a few lights glimmered dimly behind drawn curtains. The pub itself was closed and dark. It was the work of a moment with the lock to gain admission to the pub and from there commence a search of the premises for any clues to the whereabouts of the Highwayman’s lady. 

His initial pass yielded nothing of great interest, but drawn by some faint tingle along the nerves, he opened a door from the main room into what had been the original taproom. On the wall beside a stone fireplace was a portrait of a young woman. The painting was old, much-darkened by time and years of smoke. The beam of a shielded flashlight brought her features to sudden life – a dark-haired young woman in the bloom of youth, her long hair braided up. Her hands held a red double rose to her breast and her lips formed an enigmatic smile that recalled the Mona Lisa. The painting held neither signature nor date, but after some consideration he knew it to be irrelevant. This was the Highwayman’s lady, of that he was certain. 

A cool breeze touched his cheek and he turned quickly, half-expecting to be facing a surprised servant of the inn, but there was no one in the room with him. Pocketing the flashlight, he caught just a hint of movement at the periphery of his vision. On the other side of the taproom, an opening in the wall gaped darkly. He moved quickly to that portal, to discover a small landing and a door leading onto a narrow stairway upward. Someone had passed that way only seconds before and he followed. Like those in Carrick’s cottage, the stairs were uneven and so worn with time that he was at some pains to tread as lightly as possible.

He emerged onto a hall that fronted a row of small rooms. None of them seemed to be in use in this wing of the inn. When he softly opened a door, that room proved to be nearly filled to the ceiling with boxes containing non-perishables; canned goods, bottles of mineral water, and other ordinary items. Returning to the hallway, he stilled himself and was rewarded by the merest creak of sound from a room at the corner of the building.

The door was not locked, but the hinges were very stiff and only opened after some effort spent to avoid producing telltale noise. At last the door yielded and he entered the chamber.

This room was not filled with dry goods, but instead contained a solid old bureau and a large wardrobe set against one wall. A single four-poster bed was against the wall, opposite the tall window. The moon shone through the bubbly old glass and bathed the wooden flooring in light. The air had the feeling of being long undisturbed, and yet there was no dust to be seen on the furniture.

The Shadow stepped to the foot of the bed, looking down at dark marks on the pale planking. There was no mistaking the pattern of the staining. 

_Blood, falling from above. The worn wood absorbed it immediately. The splattering is consistent with a large wound_. Kneeling, he spanned the area with his hands. _Fatal_. _Someone met a messy end here._

_Also old, if I’m not mistaken_. He frowned in concentration as he pondered the verses of the poem. _Of an age to match the time period?_

Pulling off one of his dark gloves he reached down, touching the center of the stain to see if it was recent enough to rub off. In that instant, someone’s terminal agony mingled inseparably with a burst of pure love struck through his heart like a bolt of lightning.

_I waited and waited._

\---

The Shadow found himself in the predawn darkness outside the inn, in a small copse of oak trees, leaning hard against one to keep from falling. Part of his mind acknowledged the fact that he had made his exit without rousing the residents. The rest was trying very hard to scream, but his mouth seemed full of dry rust. It was impossible to make a sound with what felt like shattered heart and lungs.

_Still waiting._

Digging his fingers into the bark of the tree kept him upright, but it could offer no further help.

“Young warrior, how came thee by a wound so great?”

A woman mounted on a tall horse leaned down from her saddle to look into his face under the brim of his hat. His agony had been so all-consuming that he had not noticed her approach. As he concentrated around the pain, she came into sharp focus; robed in pale silks, her horse bedecked with tiny silver bells woven into its mane.

“I see no enemy nearby, my Lady,” said another voice, from behind the woman. It sounded like a young man. “Certainly no one with a sword.”

“This is hallowed ground.” The third voice was likewise masculine, but older in timbre. “And this man has hallowed it again with his blood.”

“Unknowing, I deem,” she replied to her companions. 

The woman wavered in his eyesight.

“My Lady, leave the offering and come away. There is no help for a mortal here.”

“Not on this side of the border,” said the second man.

“Aneirin is right.” Shifting to sit behind the cantle of her saddle, she held her hand out to him. “Ride with me and what can be done for thee shall be done.”

Finding himself still speechless from whatever force had struck him so terribly, the Shadow released his grip on the tree trunk and thrust out his right hand. The woman clasped it firmly, lifting him up with a strength far beyond her slender size, and settled him into the saddle. 

“You are carrying cold iron!” She leaned back from his torso. “You must leave the metal behind. It is poisonous to us.”

_Iron? Poison?_ The Shadow’s thoughts circled round in confusion until he remembered his pistols. Reaching under his cloak he found and released the buckles holding the holstered weapons to his body. They slid off to either side of the horse and fell to the earth with a dull sound. 

“Much better, my brave man. Now let’s away. Time grows short for you.” 

Her horse leaped forward, running smoothly and soundlessly over the fields beyond the Brown Badger. As he looked back at the inn, the Shadow noticed another horseman galloping in pursuit. He wore a tricorne hat and the sight stirred some nascent memory, but even as he watched, man and memory alike receded into the distance and were lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Shadow is a well-educated man, but I suspect he hasn't had the time to read such things as the adventures of Thomas the Rhymer.


	6. He did not come in the Dawning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo Lane gets a gift from the paladins of Light's Hope. With not too many strings attached. And a sword formerly used by a death knight. Meanwhile, The Shadow has gone missing in the company of the Sidhe. He'll be just fine with them. Really.

“Carrick!” Margo’s voice came from the front door. “There’s a big crate here on the first step! I nearly ran into it!”

Carrick joined her at the door, teapot in hand. “I see – the markings are those of Light’s Hope Chapel.”

Setting the teapot on the table, he returned to the doorway and with some help from Margo, they wrestled the crate through the entrance and pushed it further into the parlor.

“Light’s Hope?” Margo peered at the glyphs marking the upper surface of the crate. At the center of the crate was stenciled the sigil of a silver sun surrounded by rays of gold. “I’ve never heard of that denomination. Unless it’s some new group that’s sprung up here, like the revival preachers in America?”

“It is not a group from Earth, but rather from the world that birthed Indre. The Chapel is where she and her fellow death knights fought a great battle with the paladins, and in so doing lost the fight and gained their freedom.”

“Oh. Indre.” Margo looked for a way to open the crate. “So this is the stuff she thinks I will need?”

Carrick nodded. “Yes, or rather it is equipage her human friends who were paladins have selected for you at her request.” He smiled at her. “Hopefully she did not add any of her own, as you noticed she tends to favor death’s heads for decoration.”

“I definitely could not wear armor like hers anywhere civilized on this planet.” She tapped her teeth with a fingernail. “Of course, I have been to quite a few _un_ civilized places, working for The Shadow, where it might have come in handy.”

“Press your hand there, please.” Carrick indicated a spot located toward the front of the crate under the sign of the sun.

“Looks like there is a little hollow,” Following his instructions she pressed her right hand onto the crate. There was a brief silvery glow and the lid of the crate hinged open smoothly. Margo leaned over to look inside. 

“Oh my! Indre wasn’t joking.” 

From the crate she lifted a sword in its sheath. A gem of deep blue was set in the pommel. The blade was long; when she rested its sheathed point against the floor the cross guard came up to her hip bones. “This is huge!”

“Hold it up,” said Carrick.

Margo gripped the hilts and lifted the blade. It came up from the floor easily and she found she could stretch it out without straining. Carrick grasped the sheath and pulled it away. The sunlight coming in through the windows ran like golden fluid down the length of the silver blade. She swung the sword gently in a simple pass. 

“Lamont made me take lessons in fencing, and how to use a knife, just in case, but this is… different. Almost as light as a rapier, but the blade is broad, three fingers wide at the guards.” She squinted down its shining length. 

“This is meant to be used with two hands on the hilt, with the blade serving as weapon and shield alike,” said Carrick. 

“Shield?” Margo regarded the blade and shook her head. “Wide as it is, it’s too narrow for such a job.”

“There are enchantments on the sword that work to deflect arrows and bolts. A great help to a paladin who may be otherwise occupied with hewing enemies.” Carrick touched the hilt below her hands.

“ _Anar'alah_.” At the phrase, bright traceries of runes became visible, glowing with gold fire before fading gently.

Margo felt a sensation of warmth and lightness spread up her arms and into her chest. 

“Mercy!” She picked up the sheath and carefully slid the sword back inside, feeling her perception of the world subtly shift. “What did you just say?”

“What Indre the paladin would have said in her own language, _By the Light_ , a phrase that is both blessing and invocation. I suspected she may have given you her old sword; it is a great honor.”

“Hope I’m worthy of it.” 

“Have no doubts. If you can hold the blade you are perfectly worthy.” 

That issue dismissed, Carrick began to delve into the contents. 

Standing the sword carefully against the crate, she looked inside. “What else is in this box?”

“Our paladins are hopeful of recruiting us to their cause, I see.” He held up two simple sleeveless garments of black cloth with a low scoop neck opening, edged with silver trim. “These are tabards, worn over one’s armor to declare affiliation.” 

In the center of the dark panel was the symbol of a silver sun surrounded by golden rays. Margo touched the sun. It felt as if it were embroidered rather than painted on the sturdy fabric.

“This is the sign of the paladins?”

“Yes. The heraldry of the Argent Dawn.”

“Most of it is black.” She tugged it over her head and found it fell to a bit above her knees. It was slit up the sides to the hips, she noted, which meant it would not hinder the wearer’s legs. “Seems odd for paladins of the Light.”

“Ah, but the Light shines its brightest in darkness.” Carrick’s voice went deep and soft with the same sort of overtones that The Shadow acquired when he spoke about Justice, and Margo felt goosebumps prickle her arms.

“Been in enough dark places, for sure,” said Margo, tugging off the tabard and rubbing her arms briskly. “What else do we have?”

“This is one of the items I hoped for, and I am not disappointed.” Carrick held out what seemed to be a shirt with long sleeves, made of metallic fabric.

“This is beautiful,” Margo felt the fabric and turned it in the light. “It’s like it is covered in fine silver-blue fish-scales.”

“Try it on, over this gambeson.” Carrick handed her a padded ivory shirt with long sleeves. Margo tugged on the layers, smoothing them out. 

“They fit perfectly.” Holding her arms out, she turned around, sunlight shining off the fine mail sheathing them.

“So it does. The shirt is made of mithral, stronger than steel, and far lighter.” He looked into the crate. “Let’s see if we can’t find the greaves and boots to match.”

Margo laughed. “You know, I _definitely_ won’t be wearing this to the Cobalt Club in New York City anytime soon.”

“If that is a social club, you could dance in this,” said Carrick with a mischievous smile, passing her more items to try on. “It has a wonderful sparkle under lights.”

“I’m not sure if the club members would appreciate the merits of sword-dancing.” Her expression was amused as she considered the probable scenario were she to show up on Cranston’s arm garbed as an initiate of the Argent Dawn.

\---

Margo looked at the clock on the mantel. “The morning is getting late. I wonder if we should get Lamont up before lunchtime.”

“We could, indeed.” Tugging her tabard down in the back, Carrick nodded in approval. Everything fit well from sword to boots. Fully clad in the various pieces of armor, Margo looked like a proper paladin, if not a paladin of Earth. 

Straightening in place, Carrick gazed up the stairs. “But, I fear our friend is not in the cottage.” He walked a small circle, eyes closed. “He is not on my lands, either.”

“What?” Margo went to the door, opened it, and ran outside. 

“The car is gone!” She put her gloved hands on her hips. “Bet he went out after we went to bed. Honestly!”

Carrick joined her in the yard.

“He never said what he had discovered yesterday during his explorations, did he?” 

“No, now that you mention it.”

“After the Highwayman, do you think?” Carrick asked.

“It would be just like him,” she frowned, then exchanged it for a knowing smile and shrug. “I told you he’s not really someone who takes vacations like normal people. The thought of a criminal masquerading as a local ghost was a mystery he couldn’t pass up.”

Carrick returned her smile. “Well, we’re neither of us normal people, as the world considers such things, are we?”

“I’m certainly not dressed as one right now.” She looked up the lane to the cottage. “Hopefully the local church ladies won’t show up while I’m kitted out like a Templar.” 

Shading her eyes she peered into the distance. “Carrick? Someone is coming – on horseback.” Her eyes widened and she pointed. “It’s him!”

A young man wearing a tricorne hat, on a tall grey horse, cantered up. In the light of day he seemed insubstantial, and Margo felt a cold chill down her spine. He halted before them and tipped his hat politely. 

“Thomas Allerton, once a robber, at your service.”

“And we at yours,” Carrick replied, bowing to him. “What brings thee to the House of the Unicorn?” 

“I bear news of your comrade, the man who goes abroad as a living Shadow.”

“Where is he?” Margo moved closer. “What has he gotten into?”

“We thought perhaps he went forth last night to try and seek you out,” Carrick added. “Although we tried to tell him otherwise, he was convinced a living human walked in your place.”

“He has been taken.” Allerton’s face was grave. 

“What? Taken where? By whom?” Margo stepped another pace closer to their ghostly visitor.

“Some quick details, please,” said Carrick.

“He went to our inn late in the evening, perhaps to seek word of my lady Bess, but he went after all was closed and dark.” The ghostly man seemed to sigh. “I am _bound_ and cannot enter the inn itself. Not yet. When I rode up, he had left the inn and the Sidhe had found him, three on their fine horses. They bore him away and I could not catch them before they crossed the borders into their country.”

Margo found herself listening to this tale with her mouth open, fighting with a sense of vertiginous outrage. “A bunch of … of _elves_ have kidnapped The Shadow?”

“Not just a band of “elves”, my good paladin Margo,” Carrick said, “But a band of the _aos sí_ , which Thomas here calls the Sidhe, and if they were so bold as to be riding out on these mortal lands on a fine evening, they were no common elves, but of the lineage of the _Tuatha de Danann_.” 

“Ess-she? Elves?!” She snorted like a bull. “That’s crazy.”

“They are far more than the diminutive and delicate elves of human legend and stories.” Carrick’s face was calm and determined. “Given the power they wield, it would be more accurate to call them demigods or godlings.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anar'alah -- Sindarin for "by the Light". From the mythos of World of Warcraft. 
> 
> Gambeson -- a long-sleeved arming doublet, a padded under-shirt to protect the wearer from the armor itself and to provide some protection against blows against that armor.


	7. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo Lane decides they need to mount an "extraction" to remove The Shadow from the clutches of the Sidhe. It's a junior paladin, a unicorn, and a ghost against a couple hundred heroic elves and their bespelled captive crime-fighter. This puts them squarely into the Han Solo school of, "Never tell me the odds, kid!"

Margo tightened her belt, the paladin’s sword at her side. “I don’t care what they are, we’ve got to get going and get him back.”

“Agreed.” Carrick smiled at Margo. “We may be at some pains to extract him.”

“But we will.” She echoed his determination. Returning her attention to the ghostly Highwayman she asked, “Can you lead us to where you last saw him? There must be a trail we can follow.”

He nodded. “I can guide you thence, and a distance along the track the Sidhe took, but when they went through the barrier between their world and ours, I could not open the way to follow, and they faded from my sight.”

“Have no worries about that. I can get us through the border.” Kneeling, Carrick shifted shape. 

The Highwayman sat his horse in silence as Carrick’s human shape vanished into the form of a tall unicorn, his coat shining in the sunlight. Carrick bowed his forequarters down. “Come up and ride with me, Margo Lane. We will travel swiftly over country that a car cannot traverse.”

Margo felt the warmth come into her face. “Err, thank you Professor, but I … I don’t qualify as someone who can ride on a unicorn, really.”

“My Lady Knight,” said the Highwayman suddenly. “If Carrick tells you he will carry you, then all the forces of hell cannot prevent it.” His horse stamped impatiently. “We must be away.”

Swallowing hard, Margo placed her hands on Carrick’s back and sprang up, gripping a large handful of mane. 

“I do know how to ride – at least mules and mountain-ponies. I’ve done a bit of back-country travel the last few years.” 

Carrick was certainly no mule, however. His coat was sleek against her seat and legs, and she had a brief moment to wonder how she was going to stick on without a saddle when Carrick took two trotting steps, shifted into a canter, and then stretched out into a full gallop after the ghostly grey steed of the Highwayman, carrying her along as if she were riding the crest of an ocean wave.

\---

“…better?” Someone spoke from out of the haze.

“WhAt _?”_

 _My voice sounds wrong, like that of Indre_. He coughed and scowled. _Who is Indre?_

While the name was there, the rest of the knowledge that should have gone with the name was beyond his grasp. Under a layer of bandage, his chest ached with something far deeper than a simple wound made with bullet or blade, and everything was blurry. Human figures moved in that misty landscape but refused to come into focus. He was sitting hunched on a bench of wood over which someone had thrown a blue cloth. The color at least was able to get through his fogged vision.

“Drink this; it will help,” said a man’s voice.

A goblet was pressed into his hands, the cool metal easy to grasp. It felt as if he’d been an invalid for months. He managed to get a small trickle of liquid down his throat before it set off a fit of coughing. When he could manage it, he spoke in a less alien voice.

“What has happened?”

He squinted at the person in front of him, the blur finally coalescing somewhat into the face of an older man with a shock of short grey hair. He was robed in grey and forest green, with the hauberk under his outer tunic made of mail formed of large overlapping scales of embossed metal. A short sword and dagger hung at his side from a wide belt, the buckle sporting a spiral triskelion wrought in silver over darker metal.

“We found you. My lady Dúlinnel, me, and Berenal, as we rode out last eventide. Berenal thought you’d been cut open and left as an offering for the raven-gods, but I knew it was not so.” He touched the cup. “Drink as you are able. It will help to stanch the wound until we can get word to our healer in the city.”

He did as bidden, managing to swallow a little more of whatever the liquid was. The pain eased somewhat and his throat felt better. “Who are you?”

The man placed a hand over his heart and offered a short bow. 

“I am Aneirin, Poet to the court of the King.”

“A poet with a sword rather than a pen?” He raised his eyebrows at that. 

“Our Aneirin speaks too modestly.” A tall young man with chestnut hair, clad in light armor, walked up and clapped the older man on the shoulders with both hands. “His full title is Herald-Poet, and so the sword is for those who like neither the words of the King nor perhaps the Poet’s rhymes.” He grinned broadly at Aneirin.

Aneirin sighed. “And this is Sir Berenal the Non-Diplomatic, Knight of the King and a fine escort for an old Poet whose words are not always well-received.” He smiled. “And who do I have the honor of addressing?”

“I?” There were names, but all so faded and far away as to seem meaningless. Looking down at the bench on which he sat, he saw the grey form he cast.

“I am Shadow.”

“Your mother had a sense of humor, I see,” said Berenal with a chuckle. “Or perhaps she was difficult like Arianrhod and that’s the best she could do. It’s not unheard-of among our own people to have names that are …unusual, like “Well Struck” or “Clever Hand[1]”. Turning to the Poet he said. “Aneirin, I sent a message off to the city as you requested.” Then he walked away, tossing a last bit of conversation over his shoulder. “Now all you have to do is keep him from dying until we get him to Fial.”

“Fial?” The Shadow took another swallow from the goblet – it seemed to be helping, although he could not have said the taste was good, now that he could actually taste something other than his own blood.

“Fial, Daughter of Macha, is a healer of excellence and perhaps one of the few in our city capable of properly mending the wound you’ve taken.” Aneirin touched the goblet. “I can prepare such simples to stanch a wound struck with blade or arrow, but completely curing the soulstrike is beyond what modest power I have.”

The Shadow sat up at that, gritting his teeth as the movement pulled at the wound. _There it is, the name of the thing that nearly killed me._ He grasped the knowledge like a blade.

“What is a soulstrike?” he asked.

“The soulstrike is …” Aneirin hesitated. “I do not have good words to describe it, an embarrassing matter for a Poet.” 

Aneirin regarded him with a mixture of fear and compassion. “Understand, Shadow, that we are strong and powerful – terrible in battle and capable of acts of wonder. We raised lands from the seas in our time and fought back the monsters of the Fomor so the Children could live without fear. Our forebears tamed the raging seas and called down sweet rains for crops and cattle. But what you encountered is beyond our power.”

“You cannot do it?” Some further bits of received information clicked together. “You are not human.”

“Indeed. We are the Children of the goddess Danu.” Aneirin lifted his hands and looked at them. “That which struck you so sorely only comes from the strength of a mortal heart.” His gaze returned to the Shadow’s face. “Against such a thing there is no defense. It is rare, but we fear it, we who claim to be fearless.”

“Rare.” The Shadow pressed his hand to his chest. _Well, I should be grateful for small mercies_. Finishing the potion in the goblet, he set it down on the bench beside him and stood up. Drawing breath carefully, he flexed his shoulders and arms. 

“I am feeling much-improved.” He began to fasten up his shirt. 

“That is pleasing to hear,” said a woman’s voice. “Our ranks have thinned over the years and it is always wonderful to welcome a brave warrior into our company.”

“Lady Dúlinnel, granddaughter of our King,” said Aneirin, giving a courtly bow to the lady who had approached them while they were in conversation.

She was three or four inches above his own height, and her shoes, what he could see of them under her robes, were flats and not heels. Unlike the fashion of New York or other great cities of the world, her clothing, while obviously fine, was made to serve a practical purpose beyond pure decoration. A belt of broad silver links encircled her waist, from which hung a long hunting knife. Her dark hair was pulled back and braided at the nape of her neck. 

“I have you to thank for my rescue,” the Shadow said.

“The gods were kind to you.” Dúlinnel’s voice was pleasant, with a lilt that indicated another language as her mother tongue. “This is our summer pavilion, and we are preparing our return to the city for the winter. Yester-eve was our last ride out into the mortal lands before the turn of the seasons closed the borders for the winter.”

“It is good you passed by when you did,” he replied.

“How did you become so hurt? Do you remember?” Dúlinnel’s face was concerned. “As Aneirin has said, such a weapon as the soulstrike is rare, but devastating. We have no counter for it.”

“I barely remember. I was searching for something… someone… inside the inn.” He looked at his feet, then knelt. “There was something on the floor…” He reached his hand out, his face drawn in pain.

“Stop!” Aneirin grabbed his hand and pulled him upright. “Stop your mind and travel that road no further.” To Dúlinnel he said. “There is danger for him and all of us if he recalls everything.”

“What do you mean?” His discomfort instantly vanished at the presentation of a mystery.

Aneirin shook his head. “Please have patience, friend Shadow. This is not the time or place to discuss such things, with you not yet healed from the original injury.” 

The poet looked at Lady Dúlinnel. Some unspoken communication passed between them and she nodded. 

“I agree. On the morrow we will travel to the city where Fial the healer will attend to you. Afterward, if you are still curious, Aneirin will explain as much as he knows.”

\---

It was past the noon hour when their ghostly guide stopped by the copse of oak trees opposite the Brown Badger Inn.

“This is where they were. Your friend was leaning against this tree and the Sidhe had come upon him.” Allerton frowned. “He was wounded, although I do not know how. It was not they who caused him harm.”

Carrick collapsed into his human form and Margo backed into the shelter of the trees.

“Gentlemen, we’re not exactly invisible here in the daylight and I can’t cloud minds the way the Shadow can.”

“With any luck the people enjoying the delights of the pub will not notice a thing,” said Carrick cheerfully. “See any clues?”

Backing further into the tall grass under the shady copse, Margo’s boot heel connected with a hard object and she nearly tripped as something flexible like roots entrapped her ankles.

“Oof!” Kneeling, she reached down to pull herself free and her fingers encountered leather straps and cold steel. “Hey!” Standing quickly she held her find out to her companions. “I found something, all right! The Shadow’s .45s!”

Allerton’s eyes widened. “Those are pistols? How many charges do they carry?”

“Charges?” Margo hefted the automatics in their holsters. “You mean rounds? Eight in the magazine and one in the chamber, nine total[2].”

The ghostly highwayman sighed. “Alas that those were invented after my time. My own pistols carry but one charge apiece.” He looked at Carrick. “But where we are going, they may suffice.”

“I believe the Sidhe asked the Shadow to leave his weapons behind, which means they have him bespelled. The weapons are made of cold iron, which they cannot bear.”

“This proves the elves took him?” asked Margo.

“Beyond a doubt. He would not voluntarily discard his pistols in such a negligent fashion, especially where children could find them and come to grief,” said Carrick. 

“Are you saying he may not be in his right mind?” Margo’s skin crawled.

“Yes. The Sidhe are ancient and powerful and have numerous ways to interfere with an innocent mind.”

“Well then, here.” Margo offered the .45s to Carrick, trying hard not to think about the word _innocent_ as applied to the Shadow. “You’d better wear them under your coat.”

“Me?” Carrick held the pistols gingerly, as if they were coiled up cobras, as Margo began to unbutton his coat.

“Yes! If the Shadow’s under any sort of spell like our old enemies Shiwan Khan or Moquino the Voodoo Master uses, then there’s no point to having me carry them. He trained me. He knows very well I might have them under this.” She tugged at the front of her loose tabard. “And he’d want them back right away.” 

Removing Carrick’s outer coat, she pulled the holsters up his arms, over his shoulders, and buckled them in place. “At least you’re about the same breadth through the chest. On me, I’d have to punch new holes for the buckles to take it in.”

Carrick gave her a sober stare. “You must know I have no idea how to use these weapons and I am not keen to learn.” Shaking his shoulders with a low grunt, he settled them into place along his sides. “The very metal sings of sorrow and pain.” Taking his coat back from Margo, he shrugged into it and fastened the buttons.

“Doesn’t matter.” Her tone was practical. “Just keep them out of his hands till he’s well again or we’ll all be pushing up the daises before you know it.” She canted her head sideways at Allerton. “Even him.”

Regaining his unicorn shape Carrick indicated his back with his muzzle. “Hop up and let’s be off, we’ve some swift traveling to do before we catch them.”

As they leaped over the road and fence beyond the inn, Margo cleared her throat.

“So… when we find them, and him, what do we do?”

“Keep your sword close at hand and fear nothing,” Carrick replied.

Allerton laughed in a way Margo found unnervingly familiar.

[1] The names of hero Lleu Llaw Gyffes <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lleu_Llaw_Gyffes>. His mother Arianrhod refused to give him a name for “reasons” and Lleu’s foster-parent had to resort to subterfuge to get a name from her.

[2] From Wikipedia’s entry: _The M1911, also known as the Colt Government or "Government", is a single-action, semi-automatic, magazine-fed, recoil-operated pistol chambered for the .45 ACP cartridge_. Designed by John Browning and first commissioned for use by the United States Armed Forces in 1911, hence its designation. Used in World War I, where the Shadow likely first acquired the weapon while he was on active duty. The standard-issue pistol had 7+1 rounds, but modified magazines can bump up the number of rounds. Full article here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M1911_pistol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fial, daughter of Macha https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Macha , was born at the finish line of the cruel race Macha was forced to run for the amusement of the king of Ulster. Fial's name means "modest".


	8. Light and Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is going to be awful.” Margo stood half in front of Carrick as if by doing so she could block the bullets her memory expected to come blazing their way at any moment. Her face was set in an expression Carrick had seen more on samurai of old Japan than on people in the West and certainly not on such a young woman. 
> 
> “How awful?” Carrick kept his voice low and non-threatening.
> 
> “We’ll be lucky to last ten seconds.” She felt no fear, just frustration that their rescue mission would come to naught.
> 
> “He does not have his pistols on him. Remember?” Flexing his shoulders, Carrick felt the metallic weight of the Shadow’s twin .45s in their holsters under his coat.
> 
> “Fine. You can add another ten seconds then,” said Margo. Her smile was wry. 

“Let us see if we can bring our friend forth with the strength of words alone,” said Carrick. 

After Carrick had opened the invisible gateway between England and Faerie for all three of them, they had traveled swiftly on a track through lands that had once been forested. Only a few slender trees remained and much scrubby undergrowth had sprung up in the wake of the lumber-harvesters. Ahead of them lay a large pavilion, with banners in blue and gold flying merrily in the breeze. A fair number of people went about their business outside the structure, carrying wood and water and caring for horses. They could see a pair of elves clad in armor and bearing long spears standing guard on either side of the large doorway, which was wide and high enough for a pair of mounted knights to enter. Carrick slowed and stopped far enough away that their conversation could not be overheard.

“I do not dare present myself in my own shape as a unicorn,” said Carrick. “Our friend was unwilling to believe his eyes when he first saw my true form last year and he would certainly reject it now when his mind is not clear. Better to wear a face he might recognize.”

“That’s sound reasoning,” Margo said as she dismounted. A moment later Carrick, in his human shape, stood by her side. 

“Words are all well and good,” said Thomas. “But I mislike these people and their penchant for stealing away the unwary. They need a good drubbing.” Mounted on his horse, he gazed down at Carrick and Margo. “Rash as I was when alive, I still made my plans carefully when I went forth to rob a coach.”

“Agreed.” Carrick gestured up the pathway to the pavilion. “Their power will be greatest inside that grand hall, where they have laid their spells on earth, wood, stone, and fabric. While custom demands a formality to these encounters, I do not anticipate an easy negotiation.”

“So, we march in, say hi, and demand they give the Shadow back to us?” Margo glared at the distant elves.

“Close,” said Carrick. He beckoned to the Highwayman. “Thomas, would you be so kind as to wait out here? To lessen the grip of the elves’ enchantments, I intend to draw our crime-fighting friend outside their festive hall, and once in the open air, I believe the sight of you would do him good.”

“Good, eh?” Thomas grinned brightly. “If he still believes me a robber and it be his bound duty to stop me? Yes, it could help more than anything.”

Margo nodded in agreement.

“It might do the trick, given he’s thought of little else than finding you these past two nights.” Margo smiled at the Highwayman. “You should feel flattered.”

“I’m touched by his regard,” said Thomas, patting his chest.

“Very good then,” said Carrick. “Let us try this…”

\---

“We have the finest smiths in all of the country,” said Aneirin. Drawing his sword, he held it out to the Shadow on the flat of his hand. “Most of them have their forges in the city. Once we arrive there, we will have them make something that will fit your reach and strength.”

The Shadow took the offered blade and examined it with interest. It bore a long grove down its midline and the cross guard was inlaid with gold and red gems set deeply into the metal to protect them from damage.

“This is a fine sword, but it is not made of steel,” he said, turning the blade over to inspect the other side.

“No. It is an alloy of our own devising, mostly made from a metal mined in mountains far from here. We call it mithral; it is stronger and lighter than steel and best of all, not poisonous to us.”

“It seems inefficient compared to pistols. Have you made nothing like that?” _I had a set of pistols_ , he thought as he spoke. W _here did they go?_ The gap in his memory was troubling, but speaking with his companions kept bumping that niggling worry to the back of his mind.

“Ah, humans and their efficient weapons of slaughter,” said Berenal, shaking his head. “Such weapons only would function close to the borders of our world with theirs. But as you go deeper into our country, that which powers the charges in such weapons will cease to work. There are alchemists who could formulate something that would work here, but our people consider such weapons less than honorable. If you must fight an enemy at a distance, we have fine bows and crossbows.”

“Or you learn magecraft and the casting of spells,” Aneirin added.

“Indeed,” said Lady Dúlinnel. “With training, you will become a powerful warrior-mage.”

“Magic?” the Shadow frowned. “I never believed in it.”

“Permit us to change your mind on that,” said Aneirin with a strange laugh. Looking away, he noticed a guard hastening up to them. 

“My Lords and Lady,” the guard said, bowing. 

“What is it, Haeldir?” asked Dúlinnel. Looking toward the entrance to their grand pavilion she could see two forms silhouetted in the entrance.

“A Professor Carrick and Lady Margo are here to parley with you.” Haeldir turned his head toward their visitors. 

“Carrick?” Dúlinnel’s face wore a puzzled expression. “Aneirin, do we know him?”

“Your grandsire has mentioned him before,” said Aneirin. “He has not been to the city for some time, but his name is held in regard there. He is a scholar of deep knowledge.”

“And the woman?” Dúlinnel directed this question at Haeldir.

“She seems to be a paladin, a mortal knight pledged to uphold just causes.” Haeldir looked embarrassed. “I fear I do not recognize the coat of arms of her order, but it is an argent sun, rayed gules, on a field sable.”

Dúlinnel seemed a bit nonplussed by the description, but held out her hand toward the doorway. “Have them come to us. Perhaps we can persuade them to stay for a time.” 

Haeldir left them and strode back the length of the hall to greet their visitors.

At the guard’s polite gesture to proceed, Carrick and Margo entered the pavilion. Treading on fine mats woven of fragrant rushes, they paced the distance to the small group of people standing before a fine banquet table bearing the remnants of a feast. They saw one very tall woman in pale robes of silk, two men in green and gold, and one other, clad in black from head to foot. 

The initial relief Margo felt at seeing the Shadow alive was immediately tempered by the realization that while he was looking straight at them, there was no spark of recognition in his eyes. Once again her skin crawled. _Turnabout is fair play? He had to deal with me losing my memories, and now I face the same situation._

“My Lady Dúlinnel, My Lords, may I present Professor Carrick of Oxford and Lady Margo of…” Haeldir looked at her.

“The Argent Dawn,” said Margo clearly. 

Carrick smiled at her.

“Welcome, both of you, to our summer pavilion,” said Dúlinnel. “Please be seated and partake of some refreshment.” The courtiers had approached them with trays of wine and food, but only came so close and then halted ten paces away.

“I must graciously refuse your kind offer,” said Carrick. “We carry cold iron and cannot ask you or your people to approach us too closely.”

“And why do you bear such things into our lands?” asked Aneirin sternly.

“As I recall, the borders are no one’s lands and we must carry the tools of our trade as we travel them,” Carrick answered with a smile. 

Margo noted his eyes had become a brighter shade of blue, as if someone had turned the light in their depths up a notch.

“We crossed the border from my holdings on the mortal lands to seek for our friend who became lost last night. When he vanished we feared the worst, an attack by redcaps or wights, perhaps.” Carrick held out his hand toward the Shadow. “But I see you have him safe and that gladdens my heart.”

“We found him sorely wounded,” said Aneirin. “And bore him here to save his life with what simples I could brew.” The herald smiled at Carrick, but his eyes were cold. “Tomorrow our company travels with him to the city of the King, where our healer Fial will remove the mortal taint that is fit to slay him.”

“And remove all memories of his former life, including those who served him with love and honor,” said Carrick, looking angry for the first time.

Dúlinnel waved a dismissive hand. “A paltry semblance of what a true life can be.”

“He may elect to stay with you,” Carrick replied. “But only after you have released your hold on him and restored his memories so he may consent with free will and full knowledge of what you wish to do.”

“I see no reason to take such a risk when we have won him fairly,” said Dúlinnel. Turning to the Shadow she said. “Shadow, these people are becoming a nuisance, will you remove them for me?”

“Of course Lady Dúlinnel, if Aneirin does not mind my borrowing his sword for a brief time?” The Shadow turned his forbidding stare on Carrick and Margo. 

Margo gave a little groan. What she could see of the Shadow’s face was set and stern. Years of experience told her that look was often the last thing a criminal genius would see in this life. 

“This is going to be awful.” Margo stood half in front of Carrick as if by doing so she could block the bullets her memory expected to come blazing their way at any moment. Her face was set in an expression Carrick had seen more on samurai of old Japan than on people in the West and certainly not on such a young woman. 

“How awful?” Carrick kept his voice low and non-threatening.

“We’ll be lucky to last ten seconds.” She felt no fear, just frustration that their rescue mission would come to naught.

“He does not have his pistols on him. Remember?” Flexing his shoulders, Carrick felt the metallic weight of the Shadow’s twin .45s in their holsters under his coat.

“Fine. You can add another ten seconds then,” said Margo. Her smile was wry. 

“Ha! Then we’ve all the time in the world.” The light in Carrick’s eyes brightened a bit more and he tossed his head like a war-horse scenting battle.

The Shadow approached them, making several quick passes with the sword Aneirin had given him, handling the blade as if it were no heavier than a twig. Under the broad brim of his black hat his pale eyes glinted. “You may leave now.”

“He only gives one warning.” Margo spoke out of the side of her mouth to Carrick. 

“Fair enough.” Carrick addressed his next words to their friend. “Please come with us – I’m not here to dispute your right to stay if such be your decision, but before you decide, you need to have all your memories returned and your mind working properly.”

“My mind is functioning perfectly well,” said the Shadow. “Leave now and do not return.”

“Two warnings; he really must be sick,” said Margo. “Wake up, Kent! The fairies have corrupted your thoughts. Come with us and get yourself back to normal.” Margo’s use of the Shadow’s long-abandoned true name seemed to have no effect other than to attract his grim attention.

“Fairies?!” Aneirin’s offended exclamation made Carrick grin.

“I am Shadow and you were warned.”

Margo saw a dark blur of motion and something shoved hard against her chest, sending her staggering backward. Carrick’s hand steadied her, and looking downward she saw the front of her tabard was hanging open in a long diagonal slash, exposing the silvery mail shirt underneath. 

“Shit.” Margo’s epithet was heartfelt. The armor had deflected a terrible blow. Her upper ribs ached from the impact. “Fine, Kent.” She drew her sword and noted in passing the runes on the blade were glowing.

Carrick put his hand on her shoulder and backed her up another step toward the doorway of the pavilion.

“Are ye wounded?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she replied. “Armor worked.”

“Keep thy guard up,” Carrick said. The elvish retinue nearly encircled them but seemed loath to draw too near. “Thy blade is forged of steel and magic. The magic they may not yet respect, but the steel is their bane.”

“Oh good,” said Margo, gripping the blade two-handed. It felt responsive, light in her hands, balanced at some invisible pivot-point that made it easy to maneuver. “Now all we have to do is keep Himself from having our guts for garters and all will be well.”

Hardly had the words left her mouth than Margo found herself in the midst of a sword duel, parrying blows that would have separated her unarmored head from her shoulders had she been a little less fast. That she could block the attacks at all surprised her. _I think he’s slower; there’s something wrong with him_. She scowled. _OK, a lot wrong with him!_ Catching a strike on the crossguard of her sword she thrust the Shadow back. 

“Kent, stop! Wake up!” she cried.

He did no such thing, but dove forward, aiming a killing strike at Carrick, who was entirely unarmed and unarmored. To Margo’s surprise Carrick did not flinch away but instead moved, _fast_ , stepping inside the stroke, and pushing the sword back and away with his shoulder. When the Shadow aimed a blow at his head with his free hand, Carrick likewise dodged that strike and then did what any stallion would do in a fight; he sank his teeth into the forearm of his foe. His sharp canines punctured fabric and flesh alike and grated on bone. With a hiss of pain the Shadow pulled himself free, but while he was distracted Carrick took the opportunity to seize his arms and pull him several more steps toward the entrance of the pavilion, Margo backing up with him.

Screwing up his face, Carrick spit onto the matting. “I’m not a carnivore.” He grinned, fierce and glad. “But I will defend myself.”

Abandoning his blade with a growl, the Shadow pounced on Carrick like a black tiger, throwing him onto the ground and tearing at his coat.

“Carrick! Guns!” Margo’s warning shout came a moment too late as Carrick felt his attacker pull one of the pistols free of its holster. Carrick rolled quickly to deny him the second weapon, coming up into a crouch, but the Shadow had sprung up with his prize, finger already pulling the trigger at point blank range.

“NO!” 

Margo thrust her sword between Carrick and the Shadow. Runes on the blade flared up with light and three shots ricocheted off an invisible barrier. Somewhere to the right an unlucky elf yelped in pain as a bullet found him. Margo shifted closer to Carrick, keeping her sword up in guard.

The Shadow fired once more, with the same result; the bullet glanced harmlessly aside from its intended target. He snorted with annoyance, following as his prey backed another pace toward the doorway. That made him think they intended to flee and he had no intention of allowing them to do so. They had moved beyond the place where he had dropped his sword, and his pistol did not seem capable of hitting them through the barrier produced by Margo’s sword. Momentarily stymied, he hesitated.

“Part of you is missing!” Carrick’s voice was clear. “What did they do to you?”

“Healed my wounds,” said the Shadow, shaking his head in the negative. “Nothing more.”

“You are mistaken,” said Carrick. “They have damaged the integrity of your mind.”

“Kent! You’re bleeding!” Margo was alarmed at the sight.

The Shadow glared at her as she pointed out the obvious. “Of course I’m bleeding! Your idiot partner bit me!”

“No, you’re bleeding from the mouth!” She pointed at his face. 

“They cannot fully heal him,” said Carrick as he stood his ground with a snort. “What healing spells they have laid on him are weakening.”

“Please stop, Kent! You’ll die if you keep on!” As she spoke, Margo knew the truth of her words. Whatever magic the Sidhe had, it was not enough to mend the injury he had taken.

Wiping the blood from his face, the Shadow gave her that stubborn look she knew all too well. 

“I’ll stop when the work is finished.” He raised his pistol and seemed to be debating which of them to target first.

“God help us,” said Margo, gritting her teeth to hold back tears. It felt as if they had been dragging Kent backward through knee-deep mud and the elves’ malice was a burden weighting them down.

Carrick was aware of the elves around them, silently drawing closer, blocking the short distance to the door.

“We need some light,” he said.

“Yes,” said Margo. Knowledge whispered to her mind through the grip of the softly-glowing blade. _Bring forth Light in the darkness_. Reversing her grip on the sword, she plunged it downward, piercing it through the matting and into earth below, grounding the weapon deeply so it would stand upright. 

“ _Anar’alah_!” She shouted the alien phrase and instantly felt the reality of what _By the Light_ meant. The sword became enveloped in a ball of light so intense every shadow in the room leapt up and fled, save one. Despite the brilliance, Margo found she could see clearly, and new strength filled her heart and limbs. The elves howled in agony and bolted in panic, clearing the doorway and smashing into the walls of their pavilion in their haste to get away.

As the Shadow flung up his arms to protect his eyes from the blossoming star, Carrick ducked around the paladin’s sword and picked him up bodily, flinging him over his shoulders like a sick lamb and dashing through the doorway with Margo close beside.


	9. Stairs of Avalon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo Lane and Professor Carrick rescue The Shadow from the clutches of the Sidhe. Only one little problem, he didn't WANT to be rescued and that spells trouble for his friends who end up on the sharp end of his abilities.

Carrick managed to bear the Shadow perhaps twenty yards from the pavilion of the elves when Kent stirred, struggled, and when he was not released, fired his pistol into Carrick’s upper left thigh. Carrick fell heavily from the shock of the blast and his burden rolled to one side and rose into a crouch, one hand against his chest, the other holding his pistol at the ready. 

“Carrick!” Margo drew the unicorn-man to his feet, pulling his right arm over her slender shoulders and hauling him further away from the pavilion and their deadly rescuee. “How bad is it?”

“The bone is unbroken,” Carrick replied. “I can walk.” He showed his teeth in a tight grimace. “Five shots out of nine he has spent.”

Margo thought the fact that Carrick wasn’t screaming in pain or dead a major miracle. “Wasn’t he was supposed to get his memories back outside?” She said.

“It may take some time for the spells’ grip to fade,” Carrick replied. “But fade they will.”

“So we have to survive the wait. You’re bleeding badly,” Margo said, looking at the trail of red Carrick was leaving behind them. As she watched, the blood was absorbed into the sere fall grasses, which began to green up and visibly grow. “What is..?”

Behind them the pistol cracked and Margo jolted with the impact, pushing them both down onto the grass. From his prone position Carrick checked her quickly. 

“Are you…?”

“Still here,” said Margo breathlessly. “Slug hit my shoulder. Feels like I’ve been kicked by a mule, but I don’t think it went through the mail shirt.” She flexed her arm and bit back a groan. “Might’ve broken something though.”

Carrick took her uninjured hand in his own. 

_Can you hear me?_ He offered mentally.

_Yes_ , Margo replied, sounding a little startled.

_Six shots has he spent, but he has not been shooting to kill while we are outside the elves’ direct influence_. Carrick’s mental voice was as calm as if he were discussing a tennis match.

_Well, he’s got three slugs left and that’s enough to finish the job! And I left my sword back in the big pavilion_.

_Let us see if we can manage without it_ , Carrick thought.

_How?_

_When force meets force, strife is the result. When force meets no resistance, what happens then? There is a time for force and a time for non-violence. Lie here with me in the grass and think of nothing._

_But!_ Margo had trouble even considering the concept, given the dire situation.

_Close your eyes. Above us the sky is covered with clouds. Let your thoughts rise up, through the clouds_. Linked to Carrick’s mind she could see exactly what he was envisioning. It felt like ascending weightless through the mist of the clouds. Her pain faded as she let go of her fear. Somewhere above was blue sky and in that certainty she drifted upward.

The Shadow approached the two people who had earned the anger of Lady Dúlinnel. Both of them lay on their stomachs. While the woman wasn’t bleeding, she had a broken arm – the pain of it was a distant keening in his mind, joining the chorus of pain in his chest. The man had a wound in his thigh that still bled slowly onto the grass, which had become a spreading pool of living green, growing so fast he could feel the new blades of vegetation stirring under his feet. The uncanniness of it made him hang back as he sighted his pistol on the fallen man. 

“Explain yourselves, or die,” he said coldly. 

Neither the man nor the woman said anything in reply, nor moved in response to that threat. They were not dead, but when he pushed at them with his mind he could feel they were not exactly _here_ to answer his demand. Lady Dúlinnel wanted them removed; he could simply kill them now and return to the elves. But as he considered that action, the Shadow found he could not pull the trigger. 

“No. This would be murder.” He turned the gun aside. 

“Well done my lad,” said a cheerful voice behind him. 

The Shadow started at that – people simply did not sneak up on him – and turned quickly to see a young man wearing a tricorne hat, mounted on a fine grey horse. The very man who had helped remove his car from the ditch on All-Hallows Eve. The Highwayman smiled and tipped his hat.

“Good afternoon. Thomas Allerton at your service. ‘Tis not been a day for fair deeds, has it?” Pointing his chin at Carrick and Margo, the Highwayman spoke again. “Fighting an unarmed old man and a woman who sought your rescue?” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “You’ve besmirched your honor.”

“You!” The Shadow pointed the .45 at him. “I want words with you!”

“Do you, indeed?” The Highwayman’s horse stepped nimbly sideways as the Shadow tried to close on him, pacing toward the river and away from the pavilion. “Speak to the wind, I’ve an appointment to keep with the King’s post.” 

Laughing, he let his horse move into a prancing trot toward the river. Without a backward glance the Shadow followed his long-sought quarry, leaving Margo, Carrick, and any thoughts about the elves behind.

Some moments later, Carrick opened his eyes and sat up slowly. Margo opened her own eyes and gazed up at him. 

“We’re still alive; I’d count that as a victory for our side,” she said.

“Indeed it is. Our friend Thomas has drawn Kent away toward the river. The elves may have managed to block his memories of us, but not those of Thomas. If he can get Kent to cross over running water, things will be better still.” Placing his hands together palm to palm, Carrick added. “With your consent I will do a quick healing on both of us.”

“Please do,” Margo replied with a groan. “I feel like I’ve had a fight with an entire band of barbarians.”

“The one was enough.” Carrick looked at his hands and a small ball of warm light collected between them. Reaching down, he ran his fingers along Margo’s shoulder and arm.

“Ah, that’s much better. Thanks.” Pushing herself upright she rubbed her arm briskly. “Feels like I can use it again.”

“Gently, if possible,” said Carrick. “This will hold until I can change my form and heal us fully.” Gathering more light between his hands, he applied them to the seeping wound in his leg, which closed over. “I will need some help later to remove the bullet.”

“You shouldn’t walk on that,” said Margo, grimacing at the thought.

“Can and must.” Carrick stood up, offered her a hand, and helped her to her feet. “Like our friend, we will continue until the work is finished.”

“Toward the river, you said?” asked Margo, sighting the blue-grey thread of water ahead.

“Yes, and Kent has left us a trail to follow.” Carrick pointed at a splotch of red on the dry grass. 

“He can’t run on empty,” said Margo, fear tinging her voice. She began to run along that marked path.

“Then let us make haste.” Carrick trotted beside her, his longer legs letting him keep pace easily. If his wound pained him he gave no sign of it.

Following the trail of irregular red blots led them away from the pavilion and in a new direction opposite the path they had originally taken, to the bank of a swiftly flowing river. Its farther side was a full city block away to Margo’s eyes and the water foamed and frothed, fresh from a series of waterfalls to her right.

“That’s not swimmable!” Margo shouted over the rushing noise.

“No, but it is climbable.” Carrick pointed at the first waterfall. 

Jutting from the surface of the river a number of broad basalt pillars[1] rose up like giant steps, their hexagonal surfaces looking as if some ancient giant had carved them to fit and set them in place. Some were touching, some were separated by greater or smaller distances. Most were quite broad on their surfaces, with many as large as tabletops. The pillars followed the waterfalls upward beyond her sight, offering a hazardous trail to the higher bank of the farther shore. 

“Our friend has been this way, along with Thomas.” Taking Margo’s hand, he leaped to the first of the great steps. The damp stone surface bore the marks of horse’s hooves and another red splotch, fast-thinning in the river spray.

“What is this?” Margo asked as she jumped with Carrick to another of the stones.

“The Stairs of Avalon, they call them now, and elvish legends say one of their ancient ancestors built it, but really it was formed long ago by the forces of the Earth. If anyone should have credit it would be Madame Pele, the goddess of volcanoes, or perhaps Vulcan.”

“Well.” With Carrick’s help Margo jumped to another of the blocks and then another, climbing upward. “I’m happy as long as we don’t slip.” 

Carrick leaped with Margo upward to the next step, a three-foot jump onto a smaller surface. The rushing water foamed on either side of them. “It would be very inconvenient to fall into the water.”

Margo laughed at the understatement as they jumped onward, passing first one level of the tiered rapids, then another. 

“Look,” said Carrick, pointing at the steps ahead and above. 

Fifteen feet above them in height and perhaps twenty feet away in horizontal distance loomed the Highwayman, still atop his horse, which reared up dramatically when he caught sight of them. Plucking off his hat, he waved it.

“Halloo!” The horse returned to all fours and spun in place atop their small perch. “Are ye here to join the party?” Dismounting, the Highwayman let his steed jump upward to another set of stone steps, giving him a little more room. Moving to the edge of his step, he peered down at the Shadow, standing atop a broader block of stone. The jump between the two was a much higher one, as was the distance between one stone pillar and the next. The river gushed between them in shades of blue and green.

The Shadow raised his pistol and fired, but the bullet passed through Thomas’s body and pinged harmlessly off the stones beyond him. Thomas shook his head sadly.

“I’faith nephew, I thought ye had more sense than to waste your powder on a ghost, and a ghost that has been trying very hard to keep thee alive.”

The Shadow stepped backward as if he’d been struck and his pistol slid from his fingers to land on the damp stone at his feet. Margo and Carrick moved up to the step below his own, but all his attention was on Thomas.

“That cannot be,” said the Shadow flatly.

“Like the unicorn, I cannot lie, my lad. The truth be my shield and buckler.” Thomas sat down on his stone step, face serious. “I died before I could wed my love and so had no children of my own, but my family was large and my younger brother John had more sense than to take up the life of a robber. He married the youngest daughter of the innkeeper and emigrated to the Colonies to start anew there. Because I had managed to besmirch the family name, he took a new one, as was common in those days, and became John Allard, your several times great-grandsire.”

“No,” said Kent, shaking his head.

“Ah, the family stubbornness is bred in the blood and bone, there’s no denying it,” said Thomas, smiling again at Kent. Carrick and Margo jumped up that one last step.

Kent suddenly realized Carrick and Margo had reached him. Turning about, he grabbed Carrick by the shoulder with one hand and aimed a strike at his head with the other.

Margo decided the most expedient thing would be to simply wrap her entire body around Kent’s ankles as he and Carrick struggled. That hobbling action had the effect of causing Kent to collapse, dragging Carrick down with him into a heap. 

“Who wounded you?” asked Carrick, trying to ward off further blows and being only partly successful. At last he managed to trap the Shadow’s wrists and was able to hang on, which was an indication of how weak he had become. “Think! Remember! What happened at the Brown Badger Inn?”

“I searched,” he growled, trying to free himself. “Found her room at the Inn. Where she died.” Pulling his wrists free he grabbed the front of Carrick’s coat. “Residual energy… from Bess….” The Shadow’s eyes closed as he fought back through faded layers of memory. “Not deliberate, there was no malice in it, but… I touched it and released the soulstrike.” His eyes opened wide and stared into Carrick’s. “Released _Her_!” His face scrunched up as he stared at Carrick as if trying to memorize every detail. After an internal struggle he spoke at last.

“You. I know you, you’re Professor Carrick.” He looked around absently. “And Margo, she’s here, somewhere.” He sat still for a long moment. “You’ve been fighting, both of you.” The Shadow processed this new information rapidly, letting go his grip on Carrick’s very torn coat. “Who were you fighting?”

“Kent, you _yutz_!” Margo’s furious voice came from somewhere under the pileup of their bodies. The Shadow shifted to one side and pulled her upright. Gasping for air she glared at him, the front of her tabard hanging open in the long slash left by the sword he’d been using at the start of the battle. “The elves took you away with them last night and blocked your memories of us.”

Kent ground his knuckles into his eyes, still piecing together the fragments. “I … thought they were helping when I was hurt.”

“They were helping you a little,” said Carrick. “And helping themselves a lot. They are desperate for more people in these their lands. They reproduce so slowly and even after so many weary ages, they still love to war among themselves.” Carrick smiled sadly. “If you think human beings are slow to draw lessons from life, you should spend more time among the Sidhe.”

His expression changed to one of optimism. “Now that you have been here, the borders are open to you. If you should find some day in the future that you weary of trying to tame mortal men, you can return here and lend your strength to instilling a better moral code in these unruly people.”

“Such an offer,” said the Shadow. But as he drew breath to say something further an arrow hummed by his head, impaling the outer brim of his slouch hat and carrying it off into the rushing waterfall. 

“Company,” said Margo, peering down from their high vantage point. “Looks like about half the people that were at the pavilion, armed with bows and arrows.” Lowering herself onto her stomach to present less of a target, she said. “I don’t think you have but one or two rounds left in your .45, but Carrick has the second one if you want it.”

Lifting the pistol he’d been sitting on, the Shadow did a quick check of the magazine, shoving it back into the weapon with a sharp click. “You are correct. How did I spend the first seven rounds?”

“On us,” said Margo.

“What?!” 

“And you tried to cut us in two a couple times, but that hardly counts,” she said as she flicked the damp hair out of her eyes, trading her annoyance for a snicker. Her relief at having the Shadow back in something like his right mind made her feel giddy. 

Thomas jumped easily down to their step, his booted feet making no sound as he landed.

“Methinks I’ve had enough of these elves and their benighted ways,” Thomas said. “Take my hand, all of you.” Pulling one of his flintlock pistols from his belt with his right hand he held his left out and down toward Kent and Margo.

Kent grasped the ghostly hand and found it solid, if cold. Margo laid her hand over his own, as did Carrick, whose eyes were filled with stellar light. Standing tall, Thomas lifted his old pistol to his hat brim like a duelist and shouted. 

“Now then you villainous rabble, you’ve harmed my kith and kin! I’ll say this once only: beg forgiveness of those you have wronged and leave in peace, or repent like Job in dust and ashes.” The Highwayman’s voice carried over the rush of the waters clear as a trumpet. 

The elves on the river bank seemed momentarily caught in confusion at the Highwayman’s appearance. Lady Dúlinnel however was not deterred. Gesturing with both hands, she sent a ball of arcane fire arcing toward them and shouted at her retinue.

“Slay them! Slay them all!”

Thomas said nothing further, but brushed aside the fireball as if it was a piece of fuzz. It bounced into the water and fizzled out harmlessly. Arrows from the elves began to whistle by as they obeyed their lady’s command. One struck him squarely, but passed through his ghostly form without harm. Thomas sighted his weapon, not directly at Dúlinnel, but at the ground under her feet, and squeezed the trigger. As the weapon discharged, Kent felt lightning surge from his heart up his arm and into Thomas and his pistol.

The flintlock glowed and spat out a brilliant lance of silver light that struck the earth before Dúlinnel and her retainers. At once the ground was covered in a blackened film that expanded to cover the earth where the elves were standing. The substance flowed like ebony water up their limbs until they were completely covered and then solidified, freezing them all in place like statues.

“Now, _there_ is one way to discharge the soulstrike,” said Thomas. “And most pleasing.”

“There’s no defense against it,” said Kent. “I remember them saying so.”

“I don’t think they’ve read the Bible much, if at all,” said Margo, staring wide-eyed at the petrified figures below them. “Especially not the book of Job.” She sucked in a deep breath. “For revenge, it’s pretty Biblical.”

“Revenge?” Thomas raised his eyebrows. “The soulstrike cannot be used for such paltry ends. This is simply…”

“Justice,” said the Shadow. Smiling strangely, he sagged backward and Carrick caught him before he could roll off their stone perch into the water.

[1] These are a real phenomenon, see <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giant%27s_Causeway> and <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_places_with_columnar_jointed_volcanics>


	10. Where the Light Enters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What happened?” asked the Shadow, noticing the bloody hole in Carrick’s breeches for the first time.  
> “Later,” said Carrick. “We will speak of our adventures when everyone is safe.”
> 
> Time for a little patching-up of everyone and everything.

“May I heal you, Kent Allard?” asked Carrick, his voice penetrating the grey fog that blood loss had wrapped around his brain.

“Of course, why not?” Kent replied. He tried to shrug but his shoulders felt numb. Through his closed eyelids he could see a soft glow of light somewhere above him. _Where did Carrick get a lantern?_ He wondered and then thought, _or bandages for that matter. Wait, I remember, he doesn’t need those_. 

“Should I try and get some of this off?” asked Margo, plucking at the damp folds of his outer cloak. She was worried for him, that much he could perceive, but she kept it under an admirable level of calm control.

“It will be fine as it is,” said Carrick, who promptly moved whatever light he was holding downward to press it gently onto Kent’s chest. 

Something warm flowed into his body, draining the pain from heart and lungs. He found he could breathe freely and the world around him began to feel real again rather than like an ugly opium dream. For a time he concentrated on drawing air into his body. Sensation returned to his limbs. 

“This is not the most comfortable bed I’ve laid on,” said Kent at last. 

The basalt stone under his fingers was cool and wet from the continual river-spray and his clothing was likewise damp through from his travels up the Stairs of Avalon. And from his own blood, if he was honest with himself.

“Then let us find someplace drier. Like home,” said Carrick. “Give me your pistol for now. I’ve the holster for it under my coat … as you noticed some time ago. Safer to carry it properly as we finish our trip up the Stairs. I do not think we will be needing further firepower at this time.”

The Shadow pulled the pistol from the belt of his trousers and handed it grip-first to Carrick, who holstered it under his coat. “I can walk.” He sat up, and felt the stone on which he sat tilt sideways. He hissed in annoyance.

“Gently, my friend. While you are no longer in danger of bleeding to death, I cannot replace what you’ve lost in the few minutes we’ve had.” Carrick smiled at Margo. “I have no wish to see either of you end up in the foaming river, and I also want to recover Margo’s sword. So… if you do not mind, I will carry you both where we need to go.”

“Your leg!” Margo protested.

“It works well enough for my purposes. You can help me with it, when we are somewhere safe, and better recovered.”

“What happened?” asked the Shadow, noticing the bloody hole in Carrick’s breeches for the first time.

“Later,” said Carrick. “We will speak of our adventures when everyone is safe.”

“Aye, this is not a good place for parley.” Thomas, mounted again on his spectral steed, leaped upward along the stone staircase. “I will meet you above on the near shore,” he called.

Half-kneeling on the stone, Carrick shifted form, solidifying into a tall unicorn, his eyes filled with light and his entire body wrapped in the silvery glow shed by his horn. He bowed his forequarters down. 

“Come up and ride, both of you.”

“I don’t—” Kent began, remembering his first, very brief, ride on the unicorn.

“Oh no, none of that!” Margo’s tone was brisk. “I’ve already had the lecture and I don’t need to hear it again.” 

She nudged him forward and once he had gotten a leg over Carrick’s back she immediately sat behind him. She felt warm and very _alive,_ a fact that Kent found heartening. The ghost had been chill and Kent had felt no heartbeat in the man when they had clasped hands. The strangeness of it was slow to leave his mind, until Carrick began to leap up the stone stairway like an enormous gazelle.

“These are much more enjoyable when no one is shooting at us,” said the unicorn, springing easily from step to step.

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Kent, gripping a handful of mane and keeping his eyes straight ahead. Watching the river roll and undulate along with his steed’s jumping motion aggravated the dizziness from blood loss. _I don’t think falling into the river would do me much good_ , he thought.

“I agree, please don’t do that,” said Margo quietly.

_You can hear me?_ He asked with his mind alone.

_Very clearly._ She replied in the same way. _I couldn’t hear anything from you before… when the elves had you in their possession._

“Sorry. Not meaning to eavesdrop, but I think proximity might have something do with it,” she added aloud. 

“Some ordeals open the mind rather than close it off,” Kent said thoughtfully as Carrick gained the top of the waterfall and bounded over to the river bank. Before he could ponder the significance of that information, they were joined by Thomas, who cantered up to them and matched Carrick’s steady gait.

“Hallo nephew! A pretty fish in the river gave this to me in return for a shilling.” He held out the Shadow’s slouch hat, thoroughly wet, but otherwise mostly sound. 

Margo reached out to take it and peered at the hole in the brim. 

“Kind of ventilated,” she said, poking a forefinger through the ragged opening.

“It happens, now and then,” said Kent, smiling. “Arrow-holes are a bit rare, I must admit.” Switching thoughts between one moment and the next, he directed a question at Thomas. “You paid a _fish_ for that? What use would it have for money?”

“I suspect it was simply for the honor of it, and not because it covets gold or silver.”

“It would have to be a strange pub underwater if he wanted to spend it,” said Margo with a chuckle.

“There are such to be found here, if you know where to look,” said Carrick, producing a deep inner rumble like a purr.

“How would you even manage a drink underwater?” Margo shook her head. “There’d be nothing in your glass, everything would just float out into the river.”

“Perhaps they do not use glasses,” said Thomas.

“I’d think more about not drowning,” added Kent. “And taking a drink in a diving-suit would be difficult.” He thought for a time. “Perhaps not entirely impossible, but it would require some preparation…”

Margo’s merry laugh trailed behind them as they cantered through the autumn-hued landscape to retrieve her sword.

\---

Thomas left them at the entrance to Carrick’s cottage with a simple statement.

“I will see thee all again soon when the moon is full. I trust ye know the place and the hour.” He touched his hat brim and his grey horse trotted forward and slowly faded away. 

Carrick knelt to allow his passengers to step off his high back, and then resumed his human form. Soon enough they were inside the cottage and the kettle was set to heating. First Carrick passed around tea with lemon and bread. 

Kent found he was in that paradoxical state of being both hungry and nauseated and alternated small bites of bread with sips of tea until his stomach decided to settle down. Margo was doing the same, he noted. After taking the initial edge off her hunger, she stood and unbuckled her belt, removing it and the sheathed sword attached, then looking about for a place to put it.

Carrick entered the room with the refilled teakettle, steam curling from its spout. Placing it on the table he said, “There are hooks above the mantel where you may hang thy sword until it is needed.”

Walking to the fireplace, she located a series of hooks embedded in the stone. Several were already occupied by weapons. Some were sheathed and some were not. Rolling up the belt into a tidy bundle she placed the paladin’s blade beside a long sword like an ancient claymore. 

“There’s a lot of rust on this one. You wouldn’t think that would happen, being by the warm fire and all,” she said, indicating the sword.

“That’s not rust,” said Kent, dropping a lump of sugar into his tea. He picked up another lump to put into Margo’s cup. He’d noticed the same weapon and his mind had automatically catalogued and filed the apparent “rust” under “bloodstains; old”.

“You know I don’t take that much sugar!” Returning to the table, Margo held out a hand to try and forestall his efforts, but Kent plunked it into the hot liquid despite her protests and added a large slice of lemon.

“Drink it anyway. I don’t take it either, but we need it right now.” Lifting the cup he drank half of it as a good example. Margo gave up on further protests and did the same, albeit with a slight frown of distaste.

Standing near the door, Carrick removed his battered coat and put it in its usual place on the coat rack. His shirt and vest were somewhat less-damaged and over them were strapped the Shadow’s brace of .45s. He unbuckled them carefully, walked to the fireplace, and hung them up above the claymore and beside the paladin’s blade. 

“Here let them rest for now, above the sword of Guardian Wallace. This is the time for healing,” he said.

“William Wallace?” Kent asked, sitting up and focusing again on the ancient blade. “How did the weapon come here?”

“It was recovered from the battlefield by some of his clan members and kept in remembrance and perhaps in hope that it could be used in the near future to obtain the freedom the Scots desired. After the slow turning of time, a later custodian of the blade brought it here for safe keeping.”

Kent shook his head slowly. “It might be better stored in a vault. Your cottage is not exactly a secure facility. Practically anyone could open a door or window with little effort.”

“My home is secure enough for my purposes,” Carrick replied. “Someone of truly evil intent cannot enter here. As for everyone else...” He looked at the weapons above the mantel. “If need drove someone to take a blade, then good fortune to them in this world where fair intent can become mired in fell consequences.” He pointed to an empty spot higher above the weapons. “There is the place for one that was taken many years ago and has not made its way back. Forged by the dwarves purely for the task of revenge. They put all their craft and strength into the work. While beautiful to behold, the blade was cursed with hunger. Once drawn it cannot be laid down until it has taken a life – more often than not, many lives.”

“Whose life?” Asked the Shadow, catching a glimpse of the weapon through Carrick’s memory. 

Kent was discovering the unicorn-man was easy to read and hard to interpret, with thoughts stacked in layers and memories so deep it was like swimming out from a shallow shore in the ocean several yards and suddenly finding the Marianas Trench under one’s feet. Carrick made no effort to keep him out either, although he must have been aware of Kent’s presence.

Carrick shook his head and spread his hands outward. 

“It is indiscriminate. The guilty, the innocent, it matters not. Blood it wants, and blood it will have.” He looked at Kent, his face as sober as he had ever seen it. “I have hope it lies somewhere irretrievable; at the bottom of the sea, or forgotten in an old vault, but if someone finds it and grasps the hilt, death will follow. If that happens, you will know beyond a doubt; the psychic stain it leaves cannot be mistaken for anything else.”

The Shadow nodded, filing this intelligence away in his mind. “If it surfaces, I will arrange to have it brought to you here.”

“Touch it not!” Carrick’s face was grim. “The curse on it activates through touch[1]. If you find it, cover it with something impenetrable. Heavy canvas, leather, anything that can shield the entire sword, hilt included. Be careful, not only for yourself, but for everyone around you. Wounds made with that sword will not heal by ordinary means. The blade has no sheath that can endure for long and it will eventually destroy anything you place over it, but even so, a stout covering will last for some time; weeks or months. Long enough for it to be brought here.”

“Why leave a cursed blade hanging above your fireplace?” asked Margo. “Why not break it up or melt it down?”

“It slept here peacefully for a long time,” Carrick replied. “But to answer your question, the blade cannot be broken by mortal hands. If and when it returns to me, I shall journey with it to Thule and ask the dwarves to unmake it. I delayed too long while I had it here, and so it was taken away.” He smiled suddenly. “But that is a duty that waits upon another day. For now, healing is the most urgent task before me.”

“I’m feeling much better, but you have a bullet in your leg that needs to be removed,” said Kent.

“Yes, that must be done before I can do a full healing for us all,” Carrick said. Rising, he went into the kitchen and returned with an empty china teacup and several old tea towels, which he placed on the table.

Margo pointed at Carrick’s left leg. “We should get a doctor to remove that bullet.”

Carrick laughed. “Unless you have a trusted agent here with such skills, I am far better off attending my wounds myself, or asking your aid. My blood is not human, even in this shape, and in this age of science, the difference would be discernible to anyone with a microscope. I do not need the attention of the world focused on me; it would be impossible for me to work then.”

“Well, that sounds familiar,” said Margo, looking at Kent, who nodded and stood up slowly. 

“The two medical doctors who are my agents are in New York City, I’m sorry to say. I am steady enough now that I’ve had a little rest, some liquid, and food. I’ve had to do a fair amount of ‘field medicine’ in my career. If you have a decent knife I can remove the bullet.” Kent looked at the blood-stiffened hole in Carrick’s breeches. “It will not be pleasant; I did not bring any of the more typical surgical medications like procaine with me.”

“Such things have no effect on me, I will manage without,” Carrick replied. Digging in his pockets he pulled out a battered object and passed it to Kent. “Here.”

Frowning, Kent took the thing. “What is _this_?”

“Penknife,” said Carrick.

Kent eyed it dubiously. “I know _what_ it is, but it’s not fit for the purpose.” 

Pulling his chair close to Carrick, Kent opened the penknife, grudgingly decided the blade was adequate for rough work, and used it to cut away the ripped cloth of the breeches, clearing an area above and below the injury. He squinted as he inspected the wound, healed over on the surface and not bleeding, but the bullet had made a large entry wound going in and a lump on the other side of Carrick’s leg where it had nearly exited. “You were shot from the back, from above, and the bullet has gone obliquely though the muscle. I’m surprised you could walk at all with this.”

“Yes. I was carrying you from the elves’ pavilion over my shoulders. You were still under their influence and wanted me to release you. When I would not let go my hold, you made your opinion known with your pistol. You shot me in the leg, and Margo in the shoulder when she came to my aid.” Carrick smiled down at him. “Fortunately, I am relatively durable and Margo was wearing armor.”

The Shadow looked from him to Margo, very glad that blood loss meant he couldn’t blush. His heart, however, could kick against his ribs and he fought against the sudden surge of lightheadedness. When he could trust his voice he said. 

“You could have died – _would_ have died had you been a normal human being. Margo as well, armor or no. You knew what I was capable of doing. Why didn’t you leave me there and make your escape?”

Carrick snorted and tossed his head like an agitated horse. “Lady Dúlinnel and her retainers had deprived you of your autonomy and refused to return it at our request. She would have made of you a murderer bound to her will. You are our friend; neither Margo nor I would leave you to be her thrall, even at the price of our lives.”

Kent sat with that thought for some time in silence, finally focusing on the penknife in his hand. 

“This is almost blunt, what have you been using it for?”

“Trimming horses’ hooves, mostly,” said Carrick. “Cutting twine for the garden, digging up roots…”

“Augh!” Margo looked properly horrified. She sprang up. “I’m putting a pot on to boil that thing!”

“Hot water is something we will need,” said Kent. “But this blade is simply the wrong shape and too dull.” He closed the penknife and returned it to Carrick. “You have a collection of swords, you must have some proper knives as well.”

Carrick scrubbed a hand through his mane of pale hair as he thought. “In the kitchen, under the cupboard that holds cups and saucers, there is a drawer. I have a small fine blade in there that a friend gave to me.” He smiled. “I have not abused it with farm work.”

Margo went into the kitchen and put a pot of water on the stove, after which Kent could hear her rummaging about in what must have been the drawer Carrick had described. She returned quickly with a short knife and gave it to him. It proved to be single-edged when he drew it free from its simple sheath. “An old _sgian dubh_ , and very sharp indeed.” Kent smiled. “This will suffice.” Turning Carrick a little to bring the bullet into easier reach he said. “You have interesting friends.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you have to worry about infection? It doesn’t look as if you have any starting from the bullet.”

“No, I’m resistant to such things. You may work as you please,” Carrick replied. 

“Very good,” said Kent. As gently as possible he felt for the bullet with his sensitive fingers and when he had located the best point of entry, cut quickly and firmly inward with the fine blade. Carrick made no sound. The bullet soon popped free into Kent’s hand followed by a small rivulet of blood that didn’t smell like blood at all.

“Here.” Kent gave the bullet to Carrick. To his surprise, Carrick handed him the empty teacup in exchange.

“Be so kind as to catch some of my blood in that before it ceases to flow.”

As Kent complied, he asked, “What do you want with this?” 

He was able to collect about two tablespoon’s worth of the dark fluid before the wound clotted. That task completed, he put the teacup on the table and wiped away as much of the blood as he could from Carrick’s leg and his own hands with a tea towel. The residue tingled on his fingers. 

“For sympathetic magic,” said Carrick. “I have a task to perform on the other side of the border between this world and Avalon. Yourself and Margo may assist, if you so wish.” The stars in his eyes grew brighter. “The elves of Lady Dúlinnel’s court and perhaps others have managed to despoil what was once a great forest between the worlds. I have a duty to repair that. I can also remind the _aos sí_ that they are not owners of both worlds and there are reasons we made treaties and agreements long ago.” 

“Twenty-two dead and petrified elves might serve to remind them most effectively,” said Kent dryly.

“Save they are not dead, simply frozen, as it were.”

“Not dead!” Margo shook her head. “They’re turned to stone! How can they possibly be alive?”

“They were touched by the soulstrike – its purpose is not to kill, but teach.”

“Teach them to be good statues?” asked Kent, half-smiling at the thought.

“Nay, although the effect may be the same for a weary long time. They can think, but not move, nor will they die,” Carrick replied. “Thomas himself spoke the words describing the condition of their release: “repent”. Were any one of them to sincerely repent their actions of kidnapping you and interfering with your memories, they would be released at once. Unfortunately, the _Tuatha de Dannan_ are very used to having their own way in these things, and the idea that mortals have their own choices and destinies is alien to many of them.” He sighed deeply. “Some of the youthful retainers might have already obtained their freedom, but Lady Dúlinnel and her close companions may stand by the river for a very long time, in which case that is her choice.”

“That sounds… just,” said Kent. “I’m actually pleased they are not dead. She and Aneirin did try to mend my injury, however selfish the motivation.”

Leaning forward, Carrick changed his shape, taking up much of the space between the unlit fireplace and the table, his rump brushing the stone of the mantel. He curled his tail to keep it out of the ashes in the grate.

“It’s a bit close quarters in here, but more private. I will be generating a little extra light while I heal us.”

“We can give you more room,” said Kent. 

Finding he was practically sitting under Carrick’s belly, he pushed his chair back and stood up quickly, only to find himself greying out as what blood he had in his body rushed out of his skull and tried to fall into his legs. Belatedly he tightened his core muscles, and while it kept him from blacking out entirely, he flung an arm over Carrick’s back to steady himself. Margo was at his side in an instant, placing a hand over his arm and another on the unicorn’s neck to add support.

“That is perfect,” said Carrick. “Hold fast for a moment.”

“What are you—” Kent didn’t have time to finish his query before Carrick’s horn went from softly glowing to incandescent, producing light that flowed out and enveloped them all. Kent closed his eyes at the brilliance, but discovered he could perceive it perfectly well anyway. It was light that went through body and mind alike, warming, mending, and carrying a transcendent joy within it that resonated through everything like the tones of a deep chord. He was intimately aware of Margo’s reaction, which was one of complete delight, swirling by in that river of light. For one eternal instant he both forgot everything and knew everything, then the bright liquid coalesced and faded gently back to the normal light inside the cottage and he was again one solid human being leaning against another and both touching a unicorn purring like a great cat.

“That was…” Kent found himself completely out of words.

Carrick shrank into his human shape and laughed as the bloodied and partially cut up left leg of his breeches crumbled away into pale ash, leaving him looking as if he’d been trying to design a pair of truncated shorts and had quit midway through the process. “Ah well, there we go,” he chuckled. “The price of mending is oft times a trip to the tailor.” His exposed leg was entirely sound with no mark nor scar remaining to indicate the injury he had taken. Heading upstairs, he said. “Excuse me for a few minutes while I find a pair of trousers that have matching legs in them. Then I can see about supper.”

Kent inhaled deeply. Any residual weakness from blood loss was gone and he felt extremely awake. Margo gazed into his face and smiled broadly. 

“You look much better. No longer like death warmed over.”

“So do you,” he replied. “I’m very relieved.” _Working for and with me is wearying and dangerous_ , he thought with regret.

_Yes, it can be_ , Margo returned the thought with absolute honesty. _But the results are worth the price_.

Turning his hands over, Kent noticed his bruised knuckles were mended. Pushing up the sleeve on his left arm he found the bite he’d taken while fighting Carrick was likewise gone – his memories of the full encounter were there in all their details, however. Bits of ash drifted down from the sleeve and he dusted them away gently.

“I feel whole again, including my memories of the fight with you and Carrick. And Thomas as well.” He looked at Margo soberly. “I truly owe you all a great debt. I would have been dead or worse if you had not risked your lives to rescue me.” Without thinking he brushed at the front of his black coat and the entirety of it crumbled, falling gently around his feet like grey snow, followed by much of the pale shirt and dark vest underneath.

“Oh.” said Margo. “Those must’ve been really damaged in the fight.” 

“It’s the blood,” said Carrick, descending the stairs. He had donned a pair of loose trousers and his feet were bare. “The healing purifies anything dead or tainted.”

“Purifies?” Kent removed the ruined remnants of the fabric from his upper body. “It’s as if everything has been in a furnace.”

“It has, in a way,” said Carrick. “Healing from a unicorn involves energy-like-fire. It burns away the dross.”

“But,” Margo protested. “What if the person is … evil?”

Carrick shook his head. “I could not do it – there is consent involved when I heal and someone in the depths of unrepentant wickedness could no more tolerate me than I could tolerate them.” He made several trips into and out of the kitchen and set out a cold supper. “Everyone else is shades of grey, shall we say, and consent provides more than enough space for healing.”

“For propriety’s sake, before I sit down to dinner, I’ll go and put on a fresh shirt. And anything else that is ready to fall apart,” said Kent. He sprang up the steps two at a time and vanished. 

Margo observed his progress with a smile. 

“I hope he remembered to bring a spare pair of trousers, too,” she said. “He had drops of blood everywhere as I recall.”

“I do have extra pairs of breeches, if such are needed,” said Carrick, pouring out more tea.

“He’d look good in that,” said Margo, her smile a bit wider. 

“There is nothing wrong with my hearing!” Echoed from the floor above, causing Margo to burst into laughter. 

“You may go ‘sky clad’ if you wish and not offend my sensibilities,” said Carrick. “I do it all the time.”

“Yes,” said Kent, when he eventually returned to the table in a fresh shirt and trousers. He felt a lot more comfortable now that he was wearing clothing that was not about to self-destruct. “But you have an unfair advantage over us in that you are decently covered in hair when you run about on all fours.”

“I’m rather fuzzy in this form as well.” Carrick pushed up a shirtsleeve by way of illustration, revealing an arm that sported a plentiful amount of what looked like silky “horse feathers” at the elbow.

“Goodness!” Margo touched them gently. “How do you explain to…?”

“Eh?” Carrick looked confused.

“Er… well…” Margo suddenly had no idea how to proceed given his reaction.

“What she is trying to ask in her own way is if you encounter many questions when you entertain a lady friend,” said Kent, deciding it was better to simply say the matter plainly.

“Oh, I see. I hardly ever have to explain things like that.” Carrick laughed softly. “We unicorns are rare creatures and by nature solitary. And much as I love them as friends, humans are the wrong species for courting.” He narrowed his eyes at Kent. “And before you ask, so are horses, deer, or any other quadruped. I recall someone asking that question last century in an effort to be helpful.”

Margo made a pained face at Kent. “You were _not_ going to ask any such thing, were you?” 

Now that he had regained his health and energy, Kent found he was brimming with questions concerning the lives of unicorns, this one in particular. With care he gathered those thoughts up, settled them into a back closet in his mind, and shut the door on them for now. “No, the impulse has entirely passed.” He smiled at Margo innocently, which fooled her not at all, but did calm her protective impulses. 

“Here, please eat something.” Carrick gestured to the table and pulled up a chair. Kent and Margo joined him and he passed them food and drink. “Now that the healing has been accomplished, your bodies will rebuild themselves over time. Do not forget to fuel that work.”

“Rebuild?!” Kent found Margo making the exact exclamation in the same instant.

“Of course, healing is simply the body rebuilding and repairing damage and it does it constantly. You can think of it as regeneration if you prefer. What I do is ask the body to repair itself and provide energy to do so. It wakes up the cells that make up our bodies. Once that initial burst of healing is done, the cells carry on repairing for quite some time.” He pointed at Kent’s plate. “For that ongoing work you need fuel – a little more than usual for the next month at least.”

“Please tell me you did not make us immortal,” said Kent, jumping at once to the worst-case scenario.

“That is not in my power to do,” Carrick said soothingly. “Human beings have their own destinies and live within the flow of time. They can side-step that for a span, as our friend Thomas has done, but eventually the desire to sail again on that tide becomes irresistible.”

“That’s good to hear.” Kent allowed himself to relax. “The thought of doing this work of mine forever is forbidding.”

Margo chuckled. “After so much time, we’d have to do something else.” She eyed Carrick thoughtfully. “Like teach at a university.”

“Indeed?” Kent took a bite of his sandwich and after munching for some time, swallowed, and said, “What courses?”

“The _Normative Philosophy of Ethics_ for you,” said Margo at once with a broad smile.

“And for yourself?”

“Oh that’s easy. I’d be teaching art: _Delineating Light from Shadow_.”

[1] This is the sword Tyrfing, extorted from the dwarves and cursed by them in revenge. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tyrfing>


	11. Who Should Be Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Highwayman has the last word, with a little help from Charles Dickens.

“Thomas Allerton, the Highwayman,” said Kent later that evening, as they sat before the fire Carrick had kindled. Margo rested beside him on an old sofa, radiating a feeling of alert contentment. She had changed, he could feel it; their adventure had caused her to re-integrate the broken pieces of her psyche into something stronger – something new. Unlike Carrick, her mind was not an entirely open book, but that much he knew and the knowing brought with it a healing of its own. 

Carrick looked at him curiously, but said nothing. The fire painted his face and hair in warm color.

Kent spoke in measured tones. “He said, ‘ _I will see thee all again soon when the moon is full. I trust ye know the place and the hour_ ,’ to us before he vanished.”

“That he did,” said Carrick. “The moon is waxing and will be full in four days. It should be well above the horizon by midnight.”

“At the Brown Badger Inn?” asked Margo.

“Indeed,” said Kent. “A little after midnight.”

“Isn’t that when the poem says he usually appears?”

“Yes, but this time I feel something different will occur,” said Kent. 

He placed his hand over his heart, the fire opal in his ring flashed suddenly and his eyes grew distant, looking at something Margo could not see. 

“Not the old pattern of pain and longing, but… something new.”

He closed his eyes and for a moment she caught a glimpse of his younger self, before the ravages of war had done its best to erase that person from existence and the being called the Shadow had stood up in his place. Kent opened his eyes and looked into her own. 

“We don’t want to miss that.”

She nodded in agreement, unable for the moment to say anything around the lump in her throat.

“We will not,” said Carrick. “I have some work to begin, but it will not be ready for completion for well over a week. We will be there at the appointed hour.”

“Work?” Kent asked. “You need to teach your classes?”

“No, I am actually on sabbatical for several months,” said Carrick. “This is one of those duties I mentioned earlier, and I can set the preparations in motion come the morning, when the birds are up.” He stood and stretched, smiling at them. “Do you wish a walk in the evening air?”

“That sounds rather nice, actually,” said Margo. She leaned against Kent. “But the fire is warm, and I’ve had enough adventure for one day. I think I’ll stay here and ask Kent to read to me for a bit.”

“Read?” Kent looked at her curiously. 

“Yes, like they used to do before radio. My parents did it for me when I was little; surely yours did as well?”

“Perhaps, long ago.”

“Shall we read in turn? That passes the time well, indeed,” said Carrick, pulling a chair closer to the fire.

“Yes,” said Margo happily. “That way no one will lose their voice too quickly.”

“Very well. What then, shall we read?” Kent was reminded that in the entire parlor the walls were lined with books on their shelves, with the lone exception of the stone fireplace and mantel. 

“Pick one.” Margo grinned at Kent, who exhaled an almost-sigh.

“Why did I know you were going to say that?” Rising, he turned his gaze to the bookshelves, letting his attention wander over the spines of the many volumes. 

On first glance, Carrick seemed to have something of an orderly system, in that books were grouped according to topic, and then by author, but as he examined them closer, he began to doubt that first impression. Books about astronomy nestled against volumes on native herbs and smack in the middle of that grouping was a Sherlock Holmes mystery. 

_A Study in Scarlet? Hm, no_, he thought and resumed scanning. _Histories by Tacitus?_ He shook his head. _Not for reading aloud_. 

_Sci vias Domini_ , _by Hildegard of Bingen_ , he touched the volume gently, sensing the great age of the work _. I think I am going to take some time these next few days and simply read while we wait_. 

At last his gaze was drawn to a slim leather folio. Selecting it, he read the title aloud. 

“ _A Christmas Carol_ , by Charles Dickens.” He looked down at Margo to gauge her reaction. 

“You haven’t read it before?” she asked in some surprise. 

“No, should I have?”

“Well, it’s one of those that you might’ve read when you were young, or perhaps your family read around Christmas-time.”

“I must have missed it,” said Kent. “I do remember reading _David Copperfield_ in school, but that was many years in the past.” He squinted at the booklet in his hand. “I don’t remember liking that story very much.”

“All-Hallows Eve is behind us, Christmas-tide lies on the near horizon, and _A Christmas Carol_ is a fine story,” said Carrick. “Please start with the first stave.”

Reseating himself beside Margo, Kent opened the book, scanned through the front matter to find, as Carrick had said, the book was ordered in staves like music instead of chapters. Taking a breath he read aloud:

Stave One: Marley’s Ghost. 

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge’s name was good upon ’Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail. … The mention of Marley’s funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.

Kent shot Margo a concerned look over the volume he held. “This is a Christmas story for children? It’s not starting out very auspiciously.”

Margo, however, was quite pleased. “Keep going. You sound wonderful.”

“It helps to be able to breathe properly,” he replied. Gamely addressing the book, he carried on reading and rapidly found himself drawn into the story. After Stave One, Margo took the book in her turn, followed by Carrick, each of them bringing their own liveliness to the narrative and characters. The book returned to his hands for the reading of Stave Four. The introduction of the Ghost of Christmas Future gave him more than a little pause. Dickens had managed to describe much of the form and presence of the Shadow, over eighty years before he had come into being.

 _Well, at least he, she, or it, isn’t wearing a hat_ , he thought.

Margo and Carrick both raised their eyebrows at him, an indication that they must have caught his stray observation and been far more tuned-in than he had imagined.

“Ahem.” After gathering himself, Kent read bravely on through the sad paragraphs of Scrooge’s probable future, and continued on without stopping through Stave Five to the ending. 

“And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!”

He closed the book, feeling as if he’d accomplished some heavy, but worthwhile, labor. Two days ago his logical mind would have scoffed at such a moralistic “ghost story”, but found his opinion on the topic had changed.

“Well done!” cried Carrick. “Tea and scones all ‘round, I think, in good recompense for our labors.”

After serving his guests and finishing his own tea, Carrick rose and walked to the door.

“My house sits athwart those borders I mentioned the night of your arrival. After our adventures, I feel it necessary to pace those boundaries this evening and see to it they are respected.” He opened the door, letting in a cool breeze. “If you will be so good as to watch the house for the rest of the night, I will go out and gallop in the starlight over the meadows and annoy any of the _aos sí_ who may seek to intrude.”

“We will keep your home safe,” said Kent. “But I find it hard to believe mere _annoyance_ will discourage anyone who is determined.” He looked toward his holstered pistols. “I will be happy to assist if you require it.”

“You may sleep in peace tonight,” said Carrick, opening the door. His eyes glowed like distant stars under the pale overhang of his hair. “Like the spirits in Maestro Dickens’ story, I have my mild aspect, but I also have that which is forbidding. I do not often need it, but it depends upon the manner in which I am met during my rounds. Rest well, my friends. I will see you in the morning.” 

This time when Kent listened he could hear soft hoof beats for a moment before they diminished with distance.

\---

The next several days were passed in glorious, and unusual, idleness, with nothing to do except wander Carrick’s farm and help with chores as it pleased them, enjoy the fall landscape, read, talk, and rest. The only thing out of the ordinary was Carrick pausing now and then to speak to various birds and animals as he found them, and requesting they bring him the seeds of trees. 

“Only one or two,” he told the creatures. 

“Why seeds?” asked Kent after Carrick made this request of a fox. “And why only one or two?”

“The seeds are for my work, which duty I shall perform a day or so after we see Thomas tonight. I only ask for a small amount because for many birds that is all they can carry. The rest they need for food.” He chuckled. “And we cannot expect a squirrel to not eat a mouthful of nuts.”

“But tree seeds?” As they walked, Kent stooped quickly and came up with an acorn. “Like this?”

“Yes. That will do nicely, if it is sound. Make sure no little worm has already eaten his fill of the kernel inside.”

Kent gathered a few more, weighing them in his hands, and discarding the few that felt suspiciously light or had holes in them. He handed them to Carrick, who put them in his coat pocket. “You intend to plant a forest where the elves cut it down?”

“I do, and for that work I will need several baskets-full of seeds.” 

“You will have the time available to watch the forest grow over the years,” said Kent. “It is good to think of the future.”

“Oh no, I do not intend to wait so very long for the new forest. Certainly not a span of thirty to one hundred years. There are wood-elves who once lived in that ravaged forest who need their home restored as soon as possible.”

This statement earned Carrick a cautious look from his dark companion. 

“You intend to use what… magic? To make them grow?”

“I understand your antipathy, given the events of the past week, but I will simply use my own nature to help the forest take root. I described some of my duties to you when we first met over a year ago, and this is another of those.” 

Carrick smiled at Kent. “Think of it as a type of balancing and healing.”

“You remember my lessons on keeping an unremarkable façade to the world at large?” asked Kent as diplomatically as he could manage. “I’d hate to see you do something that would bring every reporter in the county to your doorstep.”

“I do remember,” said Carrick. “I am not ignoring the knowledge you gave me. The new forest will grow on the other side of the border between our world and theirs. The people on this side of two worlds will be none the wiser. I will be subtle about this work.”

“Subtle. Very well. You must excuse my trepidation as the last time you were ‘subtle’ the results were anything but. Managing the awkward fact that you do not age is relative child’s play, compared to persuading everyone in England to ignore an ‘instant forest’, especially a large one,” said Kent.

\---

“What were you saying about ‘being subtle’ earlier today?” asked Kent, giving Carrick a disapproving frown as he shifted shape in front of the cottage. The full moon was nearing its zenith; more than strong enough to penetrate the wispy high clouds above and paint the misty air in shades of silver-gray.

“I could have driven us to the inn – quietly – had we started a half-hour earlier,” Kent continued, as he pulled on his outer caped coat and settled his black hat on his head.

“Yes, but this way will be much more enjoyable.” said Carrick, prancing in place like a show horse. “Tonight is a night for being our true selves, whatever they may be.” He lowered his forequarters into a stretch like an enormous cat, then straightened up again and shook all over. 

“Hey, look at me!” Margo bounced out of the cottage. She was clad again as a paladin of the Argent Dawn, the moonlight turning the fine armor on her arms into liquid silver. “I’m completely subtle!” 

After having spent a good part of that morning patiently mending and muttering over the many forms of hand stitch-work her mother had tried to teach her, she was wearing the paladin’s repaired tabard over her armor.

To The Shadow’s critical eyes the two of them stood out like lighthouse beacons in the gloom. 

“This is some sort of strange revenge for all my misadventures, isn’t it? I’ll have to suppress the curiosity of every patron of the inn that passes by. And I am not a mass-mesmerist like Rodil Moquino.”

“Do not fear for our safety,” said Carrick. “The task of going unseen will not be as difficult as you think.” He indicated his back with his chin. “Come up and we’ll be away. The midnight hour approaches.”

After giving Margo a leg up onto their steed’s tall back, the Shadow sprang up behind, and reached around her to take a handful of mane. She settled herself comfortably against his lean frame, a quiet affirmation that gave him an inordinate amount of happiness. The disordered path of their world clicked onto a new course and began to run smoother. 

After reassuring himself everyone was aboard, Carrick took up an easy cantering pace, which he soon increased to a gallop. Leaping the fence surrounding the western pasture, he cut across country, running straight as an arrow toward their destination. Faster still he ran, soundless and swift. The land over which he coursed blurred with the speed of their passage.

 _Why is there no wind tearing at us?_ The Shadow thought as they flowed over the hills. _At this speed in an aircraft I’d need goggles to protect my eyes._ The most he felt was a gentle breeze. 

Margo turned her head as if she had overheard his thought.

“There’s no wind because we’re riding with it,” she said.

“That makes as much sense as anything I’ve experienced lately,” he replied.

Leaping a stream, Carrick laughed aloud, the merry sound causing the dreams of people sleeping in their nearby homes to shift into something much more pleasant.

A few minutes later the Brown Badger Inn came into view, and Carrick eased his pace to something resembling that of a normal horse, coming at last to a halt in the copse of trees across the road. 

The road itself was blanketed in misty fog, and the air was so chill the Shadow could see Carrick’s warm breath forming twin jets of condensation as he breathed. The dash across country seemed to have invigorated him, and he quivered a little under the Shadow’s seat bones, as if he could hardly contain himself from racing onward, or bursting into some sort of wild jumping about. He patted Carrick’s neck without thinking, as he would to settle a restive horse, and the unicorn began to purr. 

Dismounting, he helped Margo down and the three of them stood among the bare trees watching the inn.

The inn’s main taproom was well-lit, but at this hour, with the misty fog rolling around outside, the windows were covered with fine condensation. The clientele remaining were finishing their drinks and not inclined to go anywhere until closing time. The windows in the upper floor were all dark, and the place lay under a soft hush in the moonlight. Margo followed the direction of his attention to focus on the windows.

“Look!” She pointed at the room the Shadow remembered all too well. 

The moon-silvered glass in those windows sparkled as the catch was released and the windows were pushed open by a slender hand. A woman’s form was visible now in the dark aperture. Leaning out of the window, she looked up the roadway as she finished tying up her long hair. 

The Shadow felt a tingle in his heart at that sight. Turning his head, he likewise looked up the road. The moonlight had turned the road to a silver ribbon, and along that thread of light the figure of a horseman materialized and moved at a swift canter toward the inn. 

The Highwayman drew rein below the open window. Standing in his stirrups, he lifted his hands upward. A moment later the woman stepped over the windowsill and dropped gently into his waiting arms. For a long moment the two figures blended together in the gloom. 

Margo took Kent’s hand and gripped it firmly. He returned that simple embrace.

At last the Highwayman and his lady separated into two distinct forms and he settled Bess before him on the saddle. 

Lifting the reins, he turned his horse toward the road. Soundlessly, they waded through the mist, crossed the road, and halted before their small audience. Thomas lifted his hat in a brief salute. He was not exactly smiling, but his face held an expression of such peace that it went beyond mere happiness. 

The dark-haired woman sitting in front of him smiled down at the Shadow. 

“Thank you.” Her voice was low and strong. “Your bravery awakened me from a long dream of waiting.” 

Leaning down, she touched him over the heart. A deep chord rang in his soul and he felt what passed for reality ripple.

“I hope your wait will be nowhere near as long,” she said.

“Thank you, nephew,” said Thomas. He touched his hat brim. “Thank you, everyone.” 

His grey horse stood quietly, flicking his tail in the moonlight.

“When you forge chains like mine and then die suddenly, it takes a long time to perform the actions necessary to be free of them.” Thomas smiled. “For me, over 194 years. But for your help, it would have been an even longer span of time.”

“Our help?” asked Kent. “It was you who helped us.”

Carrick smiled, the expression somehow fitting on his equine head. 

“Yes. And so are the chains at last broken.”

“Chains binding them here?” asked Kent. “As in Dicken’s story?” he aimed this query at Carrick.

“Master Charles had the right of it. The law of the universe is unfailingly just. Where harm is done, repairs must be made, until the balance is restored.”

“Aye, and when you are a ghost, such matters become more difficult,” added Thomas. “To affect the living required me to learn far more patience than I had when I was still breathing.”

“Millie Farnsworth,” said Kent. “You saved her from drowning, years ago.”

Thomas nodded at that statement. “A near-final payment on a debt.”

“But why were you bound to the inn?” Kent asked of Bess. “You were no robber, and it is no crime to be in love.”

“In truth, I could have departed long ago,” Bess replied. She leaned her head against Thomas’ chest. “Love forges chains as well, although they are lighter and easier to bear,” she replied. “And for me, I would have waited till the sun faded and counted the time not at all.”

“To hazard your heart hurts, nephew. It is pain and glory. And it can kill you.” Thomas’ smile was sad at first, then slowly became a knowing grin. 

“But here’s a secret: we all die, and nothing is permanent. The only thing that survives is love.”

Leaning down from the saddle, Bess beckoned Margo close and kissed her on the forehead, and then removing Kent’s hat, did the same for him, replacing his hat at a rather jaunty angle with a smile.

“Be well, and go with my blessing,” she said.

From his belt, Thomas pulled free his pistols and handed them to Kent.

“Here nephew, hopefully ye will have no need to be shooting them at angry elves, but just in case. I’ve no further need for them.”

Thomas’s horse raised its head and whinnied loudly. He looked up the road, which was still limned in moonlight.

“Time,” said Thomas.

“Yes, the way is open,” said Bess.

“Go in peace,” said Carrick. Stepping forward a pace he bowed low before them, till the long spiral of his horn touched the ground before their horse’s hooves, causing the grass to green up and filling the air with the scent of spring. 

As Carrick straightened, Thomas lifted the reins, and his horse moved into a high stepping trot, his harness jingling softly in the chill air. Bess waved to them over his shoulder as they rode away along the silvered track until at last they vanished into the misty moonlight.

“I’m…” Kent began, then stopped. His voice sounded nearly as rusty as it had been when the elves had first found him and there was absolutely nothing to be done about it. 

Margo touched his arm and he became aware he was still holding the Highwayman’s long-barreled pistols. They had not faded away with the ghostly couple. Checking to be sure they weren’t lit for firing, he tucked one through his belt and gave the other to Margo. She secured it the same way, then leaned against his side for a moment and he put an arm around her. 

The night mist had begun to clear away, and the moon, while it had advanced overhead, still lit up everything brightly. 

The unicorn moved to stand beside Kent and Margo. They mounted his back without a word, and turning about, he galloped easily through the night toward the cottage. The only sound the two humans could hear was the breeze created by their movement and snatches of soft rhyming music that came from their steed.

_And here of an autumn night, we saw, when the wind was in the trees,_

_When the moon was a ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas,_

_When the road was ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_

_The highwayman came riding—_

_Riding—riding—_

_The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door._

_He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there_

_But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,_

_Bess, the landlord’s daughter,_

_Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._

_Fair on the ribbon of moonlight, our lovers ride away._

_No more to haunt the inn-yard or the travelers there to stay._

_We’ll sing our part, for the patient hearts have finally won the day._

###

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my good friends avers that Histories by Tacitus would be perfectly fine to read aloud in the original Latin. Alas, I have no proper Latin beyond that acquired by studies in science and several years of high school Spanish, so I'll have to read it in translation. 
> 
> Rodil Moquino, the "Voodoo Master" was one of the Shadow's greatest enemies. 
> 
> A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens, available at Project Gutenberg: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/46/46-h/46-h.htm

**Author's Note:**

> It's the mid-1930s, after the "Great War" which was World War I. Trans-oceanic travel was done via ocean liners and so movement was a bit slower than is usual in modern times. Aircraft were still not entirely dependable and cars could be downright unsafe. 
> 
> The Shadow, or rather the man he was, flew combat missions during the war in those flimsy fabric aircraft and in the 1930s flies fixed-wing planes and an interesting machine called an autogyro, which was a forerunner of the helicopter. I should mention that he has no sense of fear where heights or speed are concerned.


End file.
